


The Exception Who Proves The Rule

by eihpos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Case, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Trauma, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 46,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eihpos/pseuds/eihpos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are the perfect working duo. The sleuth decides it's about time they expanded their relationship, and will try anything to get the good doctor on side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John, I’ve been thinking about something Mycroft said.”

“Hmm?” John acknowledged him, but didn’t bother to stop reading. He was used to Sherlock talking _at_ him rather than _to_ him.

“Do you remember when he implied I didn’t know anything about sex?”

John frowned and peered over his newspaper across the kitchen table. “What, when? Do you mean back when we were dealing with the, uh, the Irene Addler thing?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sherlock, that was ages ago, why would you be thinking about that now?”

“Whenever my brother speaks I tend to block it out for later. Most of what he says is absolute drivel and not worth my time.”

“But not this? Why do you care what Mycroft thinks?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock insisted. “I care about what he tells you about me.”

“Why would you care what I think?” The doctor laughed. 

“What _do_ you think?”

“Well,” John shrugged. “I mean, we’ve been living together for over a year and not once have I seen you bring anybody back to the flat. I just thought that, you know, with your intellect and all your weird experiments, that was enough for you.”

“Well it’s not.” Sherlock snapped. “Despite what you or my brother might think, I’m not an ignorant child.”

“I don’t think you’re ignorant, I actually assume you know everything, it saves a lot of time. I just never imagined you as a... sexual person.”

Sherlock smirked. “That’s not entirely true, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“John, you know how observant I am. You think I haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“Everything.” Sherlock smiled ever so slightly. “I’ve been too busy to address it before now, but don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s the kind of information I keep stored away for the right time, and I feel as though we’re nearing that time.”

“What?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, standing up and headed for the door. “I assure you the feeling is mutual, even if you don’t feel like vocalising it at the moment.”

John sat at the table, wide-eyed, as Sherlock picked up his scarf and flew out the door. 

 

As he cleaned up his breakfast dishes, John thought back to what Sherlock had said. He thought John was interested in him, _that_ way? What could have made him think that? Ok yes, there had been a few times when John had stared a little too long at Sherlock’s tall, slim figure. Once or twice he might have taken a second glance into the bathroom when he knew Sherlock was taking a shower. 

He often found himself marvelling at his friend while they were at crime scenes, not only his startling deductive skills, but also how he carried himself, his broad shoulders, pale complexion, his green eyes... but that was normal, wasn’t it? Appreciating that somebody is good looking is a far cry from wanting to shag them. As he put away his plates, John chose not to think about those times he’d laid in bed and used all his will power to resist the urge to slip his hand into his pyjama pants and confirm the suspicions he’d had about himself for some time. No, he wouldn’t cross that line. 

 

***

 

John spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat alone. As thorough as Sherlock was about his work, the same couldn’t be said for his general cleanliness. Just before five, he heard the front door slam and expensive Italian loafers climb the creaky stairs. 

“Ah, John.” Mycroft said, entering the living room. “Is my brother around?”

“He’s been out since this morning,” John told him, putting the hoover back in its cupboard. It had taken all day, but he’d finally restored some order to 221B. “surely you of all people would know that?”

Mycroft smiled dryly. “No matter, I’ll catch up to him eventually. Goodbye.”

“Wait,” John called out as the elder Holmes reached the stairs. “Mycroft, has Sherlock... I know it’s none of my business, but has Sherlock ever had a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Anything like that?”

“Why on earth would you ask that?”

John shrugged. “Just something he said this morning, got me curious.” 

“Does Sherlock Holmes strike you as the kind of man who could possibly hold down any kind of meaningful relationship? In fact, in his entire life, the longest relationship he’s ever had would probably be with you, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft answered coolly. 

“Yeah, but that’s a platonic relationship. We’re just friends, so that doesn’t-“

“Hello, Sherlock.” Mycroft interrupted.

John jumped. He hadn’t seen his flatmate creep up the stairs.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” he drawled. 

“I came here to ask for your help with a little difficulty we’re having.” Mycroft explained, re-entering the flat.

Sherlock shed himself of his coat. “What, you and John?”

“No, a government issue. Nothing to lose sleep over, but I’d rather keep this information from getting out. Keep it close to home, I suppose.”

John threw up his arms, and dropped into his arm chair. As with every other conversation he’d witnessed between the Holmes brothers, this would no doubt end up being another cold disagreement.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock mused, twiddling a pen between his fingers at his desk. “John, do you think we have time for something as trivial as government secrets?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “All the information can be found here.” He explained, placing a manila folder on the coffee table. “I would appreciate if this could be handled discretely and quickly?”

“I’ll see if we can squeeze you in.” Sherlock smiled sarcastically. 

Mycroft scowled. “Why must this always be a chore?” He headed for the door. “Good luck with that relationship, John. Try not to kill him, the paperwork would be a nightmare.”

Once he heard the click of the front door closing, John leapt from his chair. “I wasn’t trying to pry, Sherlock, I swear. Mycro-“

“You could have skipped the middle-man John, and come straight to me. I don’t need my big brother’s permission, you know.”

John shifted awkwardly. “I know, I just-“

“So were you asking him if I’d ever had a relationship, or were you just finding a more polite way of asking if I’m a virgin?” He enquired, straight faced. 

“I-“

“No, and no.”

“Would you let me finish a sentence?” John grumbled. “No and no what?”

“No I’ve never had a relationship, not a romantic one, and no I’m not a virgin. I’ve never really had the time or patience to sustain a relationship with any one person. You know how people bore me.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that makes sense.” John shrugged, returning to his chair. 

Sherlock looked across the room to where his flatmate sat. Clearly John was uncomfortable, but his vulnerability was strangely attractive. “Why would you ask Mycroft about that?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor lied. “Just curious after our, uh, conversation this morning.”

“Yes, about that,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “have you given it any further consideration?”

John laughed. “What’s there to consider? I’m not gay, I date women!”

“So far.”

“I don’t know if this is some kind of trick, or what, but... but... Sherlock, wha-“ John was interrupted again, but this time by Sherlock striding across the room, placing his hands either side of John’s face, and planting a firm kiss on his mouth. 

John felt his entire body tingle, as the warmth from Sherlock’s lips spread throughout him. More than once he’d imagined what it would be like to kiss his friend, but nothing could have compared to the actual sensation. Sherlock’s gentle mouth detached from his own, and he looked up in stunned silence. 

“Think about it.”

 

***

 

Three days later John got up to make breakfast as he usually did only to find Sherlock already sitting at the kitchen table.

“You’re up early.” He remarked. They hadn’t spoken since the evening Sherlock had kissed him. Since then he’d only caught glimpses of the detective as he ran in and out of the flat, working, though reluctantly, on whatever it was Mycroft had left for him.

“Didn’t sleep much, can’t turn my mind off.”

John turned the kettle on. “What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Sherlock smiled. 

“This again?” John rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on,” Sherlock said, standing up and moving slowly towards the doctor. “don’t tell me you felt nothing? I may not be the most emotionally tuned in person, but I’m not an idiot.”

“I know, but... but like I said the other day, I’m attracted to women, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was looming over John now; he had him backed up against the counter with nowhere to turn. “Maybe I’m the exception that proves the rule.” He mused.

“Or maybe-“

For the second time in that week, John was interrupted by Sherlock catching him in a lip lock. Unlike their first encounter however, this was less gentle, and more fervent. Sherlock pushed against him hard, forcing John’s lips apart.

John felt hands running up his t-shirt, a soft, warm tongue running along his teeth, curly brown hair brushing against his forehead. Against his better judgement, he gave in, allowing Sherlock to invade his mouth. He felt his friend smile as he did so, and moan ever so slightly. John couldn’t remember the last time he felt so all encompassed in nothing more than a kiss.

Sherlock gripped John’s t-shirt in fists, pulling him in closer. While he’d known for several months that the doctor would probably come around to his advances if pursued for long enough, he was genuinely surprised by how easy it was. He forced his body weight up against John, pushing him up against the cupboards and onto the counter. He felt John’s tongue brush up against his own and took the opportunity to delve in deeper, running his long fingers through the doctor’s short blonde hair. 

Unsure where to place his hands, John gripped onto the counter. He was glad he was no longer pressed up against Sherlock, if for no other reason than he’d be mortified if he’d noticed his semi-hard cock rubbing up against his thigh. Though knowing Sherlock, he’d probably notice anyway. Every time the detective moaned it sent shivers up John’s spine. His skin tingled as he felt Sherlock’s hands trail from his head down his neck, down his chest and under his shirt. He flinched at the cold touch but quickly pushed it out of his mind, as once again he felt Sherlock’s tongue invade his mouth.

Sherlock pulled John off the counter, his arms wrapped firmly around his middle. Reluctantly, he pulled away to look down at his friend.

“I have to go.”

“Where?” John tried to hide his disappointment, but the crack in his voice betrayed him.

“Dealing with this Mycroft thing. Besides, shouldn’t you be heading off to your day job?”

John grabbed Sherlock’s left hand to check the time. “Shit.” He muttered, grabbing a piece of cold toast. “I... I’ll see you later. Maybe.”

Sherlock smiled. “I look forward to it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get a new case, John sees more than he'd expected.

John sat in his office watching the second hand on the clock tick by. He didn’t have any more appointments for the day, but technically he had to stay until five. Only 46 minutes to go then.

He sighed and sat back in his chair, his mind drifting back to that morning. Sherlock’s firm hands running over his body, the unique taste that had lingered in his mouth as he travelled to work, the way his-

_BING!_

John’s thoughts were interrupted by his phone’s message tone going off. 

**Lestrade has something for us.  
** **I need you. Scotland Yard. Now.**  
 **SH**

‘Perfect’ John thought to himself, a cold dead body would distract him. Grabbing his coat, he mumbled something to the front desk about a family emergency, and hopped in a cab.

 

At the station, Sherlock stood inquisitively over the evidence. A blood-stained knife, a few items of clothing, and a note. The note was particularly interesting. It had clearly been torn up in to dozens of tiny pieces, and then someone had meticulously put it back together again with tape. 

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Sergeant Donovan snarked from the doorway.

Sherlock ignored her and turned to Detective Inspector Lestrade. “Why am I looking at this and not a corpse at the crime scene?”

“This one was handed over to us,” the DI explained. “the sods who got there first did a fine job messing up the place and now we have to fix their shoddiness.”

Picking up the evidence bag containing the note, Sherlock carefully turned it over. The paper was drenched in blood but the lightest traces of ink could still be seen scattered in between the scarlet. 

Lestrade looked over at the consulting detective hopefully. “Well, do your thing?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock muttered in reply.

“Then when?”

“Oh, in about three seconds.”

Faint footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor, and as Sherlock reached the end of his mental countdown, John stuck his head in through the door.

“Have I missed anything?”

Sherlock smiled. “Ok, now we can start. Has anybody made an attempt to read what’s written on this note?”

“Well, we were planning on taking it for testing, but of course we had to wait for our favourite nutcase to look at it first.” Sally grumbled.

“Unhelpful, Sergeant Donovan.” Sherlock frowned. “I’ll take that as a no. Ok, clearly whatever was written on this piece of paper was the motive for the murder, the little pieces were taped together before the victim was killed, you can see there’s little to no stains where the pieces are joined, the tape acted as a sort of a laminate. I would think it details some kind of infidelity, you know how sensitive people get about that kind of thing. Frankly, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, straightening his coat. “this is a waste of my time. Even you lot could work this out.”

“Where’s the body?” John asked, still standing by the door.

“There isn’t one. The amount of blood found at the scene tells us someone is most certainly dead, but we don’t know who or where.”

“No body, lots of blood,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “now _that’s_ interesting.”

“The labs are all done for tonight, come back tomorrow. I’ve given you all the information we have, mull it over, do whatever it is you do.” Lestrade ordered.

John could see Sherlock was frustrated, once he got started on something, he didn’t like being interrupted. 

“Good idea,” he said, grabbing his flatmate’s arm. “come on, you can do that Mycroft thing in the meantime.”

Sherlock scowled as he reluctantly left the station. 

 

The drive back to Baker Street was a quiet one. Sherlock was doing something on his phone that apparently required all of his attention. John wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was best not to mention their morning make-out session, and rather wait for Sherlock to make his next move. John wasn’t even sure how one _would_ go about making a move on a man such as Sherlock Holmes. Not that he would, of course. It had been a while since he’d had a girlfriend, hell it had been a while since he’d even had so much as a date. That’s the only reason he’d enjoyed Sherlock kissing him, he just missed it. Next time something happened, he’d stop it for good. Probably.

 

When they arrived back at the flat Sherlock bounded up the stairs and headed straight for his laptop. 

“Feel like going out tonight?” John asked, looking around the kitchen and only finding scarce remains of their weekly groceries.

“No.”

“Working on the case Mycroft gave you?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Finished it days ago.”

“So, you lied? Where have you been going these past few days?” John frowned.

“Places.”

The doctor rolled his eyes and headed up to his room. There was no dealing with Sherlock once he’d decided you weren’t worth engaging. 

 

John woke up, his eyes blurry as he turned to look at his alarm clock. 1:57, he must have dozed off.  
Trying not to let the stairs creak as he crept down, John figured he may as well have dinner, or breakfast, or whatever he could scrape together. Skipping dinner had done a number on his stomach. 

The downstairs area was in complete darkness, except for a dim light coming from Sherlock’s room, the door still ajar. John knew his friend kept strange hours, but was surprised to see he could still be up as late as it was. Maybe he’d accidentally left his lamp on? Tip-toeing closer to get a look, John froze as he heard a noise emerge from Sherlock’s room. Perhaps he was a noisy sleeper? He heard the noise again, ok definitely not sleeping.

Curiosity got the better of him, and John managed to silently reach the other side of the apartment to glance in the half-open doorway. He could see Sherlock laying on his back, spread out on his bed. His hair was a mess, and beads of sweat were running down his pale, naked body. John gulped as his eyes moved further down the bed. Sherlock’s right hand was enthusiastically working its way up and down his rock hard cock, while his left was firmly pressed against his smooth chest. 

John knelt down, as bad as he felt, he couldn’t look away. Sherlock had his eyes shut tight, his body shivering every so often, his back arching as he moaned softly and rubbed himself harder. 

In the entire time they’d been living together, John had never seen Sherlock naked. Not that he’d ever thought he wanted to, but he was in awe of how majestic his friend looked. While he was usually covered up in coats, now he could see that Sherlock’s body, while slim, was rather defined and strong. His pale skin went for miles, his red lips looked golden under the dim light. 

John watched as Sherlock started jerking himself off harder, running his thumb over the head of his cock, causing his body to shudder. 

“Oh god...” John whispered. He could feel himself getting more and more turned on the longer he watched. There had been lonely nights in the past where his mind had drifted and he’d thought about his friend in that way, but his thoughts were certainly never this detailed, and he’d always managed to resist the urge to pleasure himself when they happened to pop into his head. This was different though. This time, he might not be able to help it.

“Oh John...”

John’s eyes widened. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, so he hadn’t seen him, he was just... what? Maybe he’d misheard?

“Yes, John, ohh...” Sherlock’s deep, sultry voice trailed from the bedroom.

Ok, he didn’t mishear. 

Sherlock moved his hand harder and faster, vague murmurs escaping his lips. His body twinged and shook as the pleasure started sweeping over him.

John bit his lip to keep himself from making any noise. 

“O-oooh y-“

John held his breath as Sherlock came hard all over his stomach. The detective’s breathing had all but stopped as he savoured the gratification. His body trembled in the dim light as he reached for something to clean himself up with.

Taking this chance to escape, John stood up and carefully padded back to the stairs.

Sherlock looked over to his doorway and smiled. There was nobody there, not anymore. 

It took all of John’s self control not to noisily run up the stairs back to his bedroom. He had something pressing he had to take care of. 

***

The next morning John headed down to the kitchen. Sherlock was already engrossed by something on his laptop.

“Morning.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock replied. 

“So, uh, are we going to the station today?”

“Hmm.”

“Tea?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop and into the kitchen. “Did you sleep well last night, John?”

John froze as he filled up the kettle. “Uh, yes?” he answered nervously. 

“Hmm, odd.” Sherlock mumbled. “I thought I heard something around two-ish. Must have imagined it.” He shrugged. 

Sherlock went back to researching all of the places he thought the body from the previous day’s case could have been dumped. Unfortunately, the scene where the crime went down was relatively close to a river, a dense forest, and several warehouses. It would take him a while to narrow it down.  
Glancing back into the kitchen, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly. He could see John was on edge. There was no doubt in the detective’s mind that John had been up to witness him getting off earlier that morning. Sherlock didn’t mind, in fact the thought rather excited him. He took John’s nervousness to be a good thing. He felt bad about watching, but that must mean that, on some level at least, he enjoyed it.

Jumping up from his desk, Sherlock reached for his coat. “Come on, John. No time for tea. We’ve got a body to find, and I’ve got evidence to work on.”

John sighed and emptied his fresh cup of tea into the sink.

“Who knows,” Sherlock smirked. “I might even let you watch.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a plan.

The rest of the morning was a blur to John. He followed Sherlock to the crime scene (a small park where the evidence, including blood, had been surprisingly well maintained), then to the Yard, then to St Barts. Sherlock hadn’t asked him to do anything yet, why should he, there was no body to inspect. 

“We’ve transcribed that note for you.” Molly smiled kindly. “It says-“

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, moving past her to the microscope. “I’ll do it myself. No offence Molly, but the professionals rarely get it right. Did you do that test I asked for?”

“I had to get Miller to do it, since I wasn’t-“

“Fine.” Sherlock said, not looking up from his work. Molly placed an envelope in his outstretched hand. 

“Ok... well... I’ll get coffee.” She blushed.

‘ _Jesus_ ,’ John thought to himself as he watched Molly leave. ‘ _am I that transparent?_ ’ It was no secret Molly had a schoolgirl crush on Sherlock, but until now John had never really thought about how he knew. He just did. Would other people see the same signs in him? No, of course they wouldn’t, because he didn’t have a crush on Sherlock. Not really.

“Hmm, dull.”

John snapped out of his trance. “What is it?”

Sherlock vacated his seat to give his friend a chance to look at the evidence. “Infidelity, as I expected. Maybe if people stopped expecting such stringent monogamy from the people they choose to have sex with, they would stop killing each other.”

“That’d put you out of business.” The doctor smiled. “You don’t believe in monogamy?” 

“I don’t believe in relationships. Boring, they waste time and opportunity. Nobody really believes in relationships, why else would most of them fail?”

John knew it would be pointless to argue. He thought back to what Mycroft had said to him about Sherlock;  
‘ _In his entire life, the longest relationship he’s ever had would probably be with you, Doctor Watson_ ’  
Did he mean any kind of relationship? Sherlock and his brother definitely weren’t close, and he couldn’t remember his flatmate ever bringing up his parents, school friends, old colleagues, or anybody else. Part of John felt bad for Sherlock, but he quickly reminded himself that it was not dumb luck that had put the detective in this position, it was his choice to alienate everybody.

“Sounds a bit lonely, doesn’t it? John asked as he followed Sherlock out of the hospital.

“Hmm?” Sherlock didn’t look up from his frantic texting. “Oh quite the opposite, it’s worked for me for over 30 years, do I look lonely?”

‘ _Yes_ ’ John thought to himself. “So, what next?”

“The woman was indeed killed in the park, she-“

“What, it’s a woman?”

Sherlock looked down on him with a glint of contempt. “Of course it’s a woman. Anyway, she was killed in the park, then her killer disposed of her body. The question is where. It wasn’t in the river and it wasn’t in the forest.”

“So then it was one of those warehouses you were looking at then?”

“Almost. There were two types of blood on that note.”

John frowned. “So, there’s two bodies we’re looking for?”

“No, just one. The second blood sample comes from a fingerprint on the back. That blood doesn’t belong to the victim, in fact, it’s not even human.”

The pair stopped as they reached the main road and kept an eye out for a taxi.

“So, the killer... isn’t human?” 

Sherlock looked at John as though he’d suggested the earth might be flat. “Of course he’s human, why else would he have a human fingerprint? Yes, ‘he’. Seriously, John, sometimes I wonder how you became a doctor. It was a human whose forefinger was coated in animals blood, more specifically, pig blood.” Sherlock pulled out the envelope Molly had given him earlier. “This test I ordered last night, shows that most of the blood on the note comes from a female human, but there’s a tiny contaminated part at the top where a fingerprint, presumably belonging to the killer, has made contact. It may be contaminated, but that doesn’t prevent us from determining which species it came from.”

John looked over the results in awe. “How did you know tha-“

“I know everything.”

Sherlock hailed a cab and they bundled in.

“So where are going?”

“Meat packing plant. Five minute walk from the crime scene. Awfully convenient, don’t you think?” Sherlock smirked. “How delightful if he disposed of her there, too!”

***

The duo arrived back at the flat disappointingly easy. As usual, Sherlock had been right. About everything. 

“Too easy.” Sherlock grumbled, collapsing onto the couch. “Sometimes I think Lestrade throws me these no-brainers just to annoy me.”

“They’re not ‘no-brainers’ to everybody,” John sighed, hanging up his coat. “to we mere mortals, things aren’t so obvious.”

“Well obviously.” Sherlock replied, his eyes closed. “But really, the absolute incompetence of-“

“Yes, I get it!” John interrupted. “Everyone else is an idiot.”

The detective opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. “You’re not.”

John laughed. “Really? Gee, thanks.”

“No,” Sherlock turned back around. “I mean, you’re not as intelligent as me, but you’re a huge step up on the rest of those drones.”

John knew that the backhanded compliment was likely the closest thing he’d ever get to flattery, so didn’t object. “Any plans for tonight?” he asked, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard.

“Why? Somewhere you’d like me to be?”

John fumbled the kettle, almost spilling boiled water all over himself. “No, just uh, just wondering.”

“I suppose I should do that thing for Mycroft...” Sherlock said to himself.

“What?” John joined him in the living room carrying the tea. “You told me you finished that.”

“Haven’t started.” 

“Then, what have you been doing all week?”

Sherlock shrugged, and picked up his mug. “Going places, seeing people, thinking.”

“Seeing people? What people?”

“Oh god, you sound like my mother.”

“It’s just the thought of you going to see ‘people’ sounds, well, odd.” John smiled.

“I have people I go to when I need things, just like you do, I suppose.” Sherlock answered.

“But what could someone like you need?”

The detective smiled and turned to look at his friend “Jealous, are we?”

John frowned. “You haven’t given me a reason to be jealous. I don’t care what you do with your time, I’m just curious.” 

“Well, if you must know, since you’ve dismissed my advances, I’ve had to find another outlet.”

“What,” John chuckled. “long distance running?”

“Phillip, actually.” Sherlock told him, matter-of-factly. “Long distance running wouldn’t be satisfying for very long.”

John’s eyes widened as he almost spilled his tea. “I’m sorry, ‘Phillip’?”

“Do you require a last name and phone number, or is that enough information?”

“Hold on, Sherlock, you got through telling me this afternoon that relationships are stupid and you don’t believe in them.”

The detective sat up straight and leaned forward, looking directly into John’s eyes. “I didn’t say it was a relationship. I said he was an ‘outlet’. You can draw your own conclusions.”

John was lost for words. He had never imagined that Sherlock would ever _need_ sexual gratification, at least not from another person. He had assumed that the advances he’d made earlier in the week were part of some kind of experiment, or worse, a joke. It never occurred to him that Sherlock may have been entirely serious. But then again, even if he had realised, what would he have done? Nothing, he thought. John told himself he’d never go there, but then he didn’t like someone else going there either. 

“Well,” the doctor managed to mumble, raising his mug to his lips. “whatever makes you happy.”

Sherlock downed the last of his tea and jumped out of the couch. “So,” he said cheerfully, putting on his coat. “now you know where I’ll be tonight.” 

***

John couldn’t sleep. It was almost three in the morning and Sherlock still wasn’t home. For hours, the doctor had been tossing and turning, the little bits and pieces of sleep he had gotten had been riddled with dreams wherein Sherlock was in bed with his mysterious man. John could see him laying on a stranger’s bed, his pale skin gleaming under a thin veil of warm sweat. His curly hair in a mess, his long fingers running their way down another man’s torso, resting on his hips. He could see the pleasure sweeping over Sherlock, his dilated pupils, his hands balling into fists, his body shivering with gratification. In all of these mini dreams, John couldn’t see the other man’s face, he just knew it wasn’t him, and that was enough. This other man was tall and muscular. He was powerful and clever, he was a sexual deviant, and a skilled lover. He had all the qualities John failed to see in himself.   
“Goddamnit” John muttered to himself. He threw off his covers and sat up, placing his head in his hands. What was happening to him?

***

Sherlock was woken by the morning sun shining through the bedroom window. He winced and got up to close the curtain. It was early, far earlier than he usually got up, but he could hear movement downstairs. Besides, he should get back to his own home. Throwing on a dressing gown, he headed to the kitchen. Unlike mornings at 221B, a cup of tea wasn’t ready waiting for him, instead he walked into an unfamiliar kitchen, filled with fancy foods he’d never seen before. 

“What is this rubbish?” he muttered to himself, picking up a carton.

“It’s almond milk,” Mycroft explained. “it’s very good for you.” 

Sherlock scrunched his nose up and sat down at the breakfast table. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, are you going to tell me why you absolutely _had_ to stay here last night?” the elder Holmes asked, stirring his porridge. 

“I told John I would be out for the night, so I had to go out.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why did you tell him that if you had nowhere to go?”

“Testing a theory I have.”

“We’ve been through this, Sherlock, you can’t do experiments on your friends. Well, you _can_ but you shouldn’t.”

“Why not? It doesn’t hurt anybody. I’m curious.” Sherlock answered innocently.

“Well, it may not hurt him physically, but what about emotionally?” Mycroft eyed his brother over the table. “Sherlock, look at me. I cannot be fooled, I’m not one someone from the police, I’m not one of the low-lives you deal with, I can see right through you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “If that was true, you’d know it’s none of your business.”

“It became my business when you turned up on my doorstep last night. John is an emotional person, something I don’t expect you to fully understand. Have you thought that perhaps you’d be pushing him further away by trying to pull one over him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and put down his spoon. “Sherlock, I’m not an idiot. I can tell when my own socially inept brother has an infatuation with his flatmate. From what he told me the other day, it seems like John is in the same boat.”

“I know.” Sherlock said softly, not bothering to deny anything. He could lie to anybody and get away with it, but not Mycroft. As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, even to himself, his brother was too clever for that. “I know how he feels about everything, but it’s not something he’s comfortable with. Or maybe he’s trying to ignore it. Maybe he doesn’t want to have those feelings so he’s pretending they don’t exist. I just don’t know.”

“And that’s driving you insane, isn’t it, little brother?”

Sherlock scowled. “He hasn’t responded to my advances, not really. I mean...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock didn’t feel like sharing the intimate details of his love life with Mycroft, especially as he and John had so little together, that little piece of information was going to remain private. “I’m trying a new approach.”

“What,” Mycroft scoffed. “ignoring him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not ignoring him didn’t work. Like you said, John is an emotional person, if he desires me, like I suspect, the fact that I’m no longer pursuing him will drive him mad.”

“Or drive him away.”

“I didn’t come here looking for advice on my love life, Mycroft.”

“Love life? Ha! The day you have a love life is the day I renounce my citizenship and move to Bermuda.” 

“I’m worried I’m wrong. I need a way to find out without him getting mad at me.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well you can’t stay here every night.”

Sherlock stood up and headed for the stairs. “Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again, Mycroft.”

***

On the trip back to Baker Street, Sherlock thought over everything his brother had said. As smart as Mycroft was, he couldn’t be right about everything. In fact, in matters of the heart, his brother was no better than he was, what would he know? No, Sherlock had to continue with the indirect approach. He’d tried asking John flat out if he was interested, he’d kissed him, twice, he’d made sure John would see him masturbating, moaning his name no less, and none of it had worked. Yes John had kissed him back, but besides that, his direct approach had failed miserably. As his taxi got closer to home, Sherlock decided to add one final touch to his plan. He took out his phone. 

**Last night was spectacular.**   
**I’m almost home. Will get in touch soon.**   
**SH**

He paused for a moment and re-read his message. Did that sound like something a person might actually say after having casual sex? Sherlock had no idea, but it would have to do. Scrolling through the contacts on his phone, he selected his only ‘J’ contact, and hit send. 

***

It was eight in the morning and Sherlock still wasn’t home. John sat blurry eyed in his armchair, cup of tea in one hand, his head resting in the other. He had slept terribly and didn’t much feel like going to work in half an hour. He didn’t feel like doing much at all.

_BING!_

Fumbling around the coffee table, not really paying attention, John reached for his mobile. He had a message from Sherlock. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the doctor read the text out loud to nobody in particular. Over, and over.

“Spectacular?” he mumbled. Clearly the text wasn’t intended for him. Great, that was just what he needed.

The front door hinge squeaked, and John heard a bang. Sherlock must be home. 

“Morning.” The detective said cheerily, waltzing into the kitchen.

“Hmm.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. John was slumped in his arm chair, staring at nothing in particular. “Something wrong?”

“I got your text.”

“I didn’t text you.” Sherlock smiled to himself as he turned on the kettle.

“Yeah you did,” John got up and headed for the kitchen, empty mug in hand. “not on purpose though. Maybe you should check our outbox and forward it on to Phillip.” He snarked.

“Oh, oops. Sorry about that.”

John headed for the stairs. “Whatever, I have to get ready for work.”

Sherlock stood alone in the kitchen, the kettle hissing on the stove. John was clearly annoyed, and there were signs he hadn’t slept well. Was that a good thing? He thought so, but hopefully phase two would tell him for sure. Sipping his tea, Sherlock smiled as he heard his flatmate banging around upstairs. Good thing he was going to work, at least that way if the remainder of his plan didn’t work he could avoid the instant retaliation. 

John came bounding down the stairs, not saying a word.

“Goodbye.” Sherlock called just before the front door slammed. 

Oh yes, this was going to plan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's plan, phase 2

John spent his day at the practice in a foul mood. His bedside manner was less than desirable, but somehow he just couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in his stomach. 

He didn’t leave the office for lunch, but instead sat at his desk fiddling with his phone. He still hadn’t deleted the message he’d got from Sherlock that morning. For some reason, as much as it pained him, he couldn’t do it. 

**Is everything ok with Sherlock? He didn’t come home last night. JW**

Almost as soon as he pressed ‘send’, his phone rang. Of course, Mycroft hated texting.

“Hi, Mycroft, I um-“

“John I’m a very busy man. Are you telling me you didn’t see Sherlock this morning either?”

“No, he came home this morning. I know he disappears every so often doing his, whatever he does, but last night was different, and I’m worried."

Mycroft sounded agitated. “It’s no concern of mine what happens between you and my brother. You two need to sort out your own little tiffs.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. Besides, you’re the one who wanted me to spy on him for you!”

“And you refused, therefore it is not for you to keep track of Sherlock. You two can’t keep talking to me when you won’t talk to each other. It’s juvenile. “

John frowned. “So, he talked to you?”

“He’s my brother, John, of course he talks to me. Though reluctantly. As improbable as it may seem, we do have some kind of affection for one another. I worry about him too, but he is an adult. As are you.” 

Mycroft sighed.

“I am sympathetic to your concern, I really am. I know what an awful burden it is to care about a person such as Sherlock Holmes, but John, this is the last I’ll say on it. Talk to him. Not me. You are looking for answers in all the wrong places.”

“Right. Well, ok. Thanks.”

John hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. What else had he expected? He knew he was being ridiculous. He decided to send another text.

**Dinner tonight? It’s been a while. JW**

Sherlock’s response was short and sweet.

**Busy.** **Tomorrow night?** **SH**

John sighed, he knew exactly what Sherlock would be busy with. Still, he’d take what he could get.

***

It was almost seven by the time John got home, exhausted. As he climbed the stairs he could hear voices in the living room. One was undoubtedly Sherlock’s, but the other was unfamiliar. 

“Stand up straight,” Sherlock muttered, brushing down the other man’s jacket with his hand. “good posture makes all the difference.”

“Hello.” John said quietly, staring at them.

Sherlock spun around to look at his flatmate, a smug grin plastered on his face. “John, great, you’re back. I’d like you to meet somebody.” He gestured to the man. “This is Phillip Calgrey. Phillip, Doctor John Watson.”

John eyed Phillip suspiciously. Damnit, he was just as gorgeous as he’d expected. Perfect white teeth, deep brown eyes, he even smelled good. 

“It’s a pleasure, Doctor Watson.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” John muttered, reluctantly shaking his hand. “Well, I’m burnt out, going to have an early night.”

“It’s hardly seven, though.” Sherlock called after him.

“Well, I have nowhere to be!”

 

Once he heard John’s bedroom door slam, Sherlock turned to Phillip. “Good work, Carl. Once again, the homeless network comes through.”

Carl smiled. “What was all that, then? Who’s Phillip?”

“Oh it’s nothing,” the detective smirked, pulling some money out of his trouser pocket. “just a little game. Here, this is for your troubles. Keep the clothes too, and the toothbrush and all that.” 

He followed Carl out of the flat and hailed a cab. He had to make himself scarce.

 

Half an hour later, Sherlock rang the doorbell. He knew he was pushing his luck, but his options were few and far between.

“Oh good lord,” Mycroft grumbled, opening the door in his dressing gown. “come in, but I don’t want to hear about it.”

***

John didn’t wake up until after ten the next morning. It was a Saturday, he had no clinic to get to, and there was no Sherlock to follow around London, kicking in doors and throwing themselves off buildings. The flat was quiet, perhaps Sherlock wasn’t home yet. It was something John didn’t fancy thinking about too much. Throwing the covers back over his head, the doctor decided he had no reason to get up, and that bed was a much nicer option than anything that could be waiting for him downstairs.

***

Sherlock didn’t leave Mycroft’s house until the late afternoon, with the sincere promise to not return for at least another six months. He spent the remainder of his day wandering aimlessly around London, something he hadn’t done in a while, at least not alone. It gave him the opportunity to think without the distraction of having another person interrupting. 

On his way back to the flat, he called into the Chinese restaurant down the end of Baker Street to make a reservation. He very much doubted John would have thought that far ahead.

“John?” Sherlock hung up his coat and inspected the flat. It was spotless. John must have been cleaning. “John, are you here?”

“Getting dressed!” a muffled voice replied from upstairs. 

Sherlock booted up his laptop. He had several new messages via his website.

 _‘Dull’_ delete.  
 _‘Dull’_ delete.  
 _‘Dull’_ delete.

Just as the detective found one that caught his eye, John joined him. 

“Anything good?” John inquired. Sherlock could tell he was trying to act casual, but the croak in his voice gave him away.

“Maybe. Man being blackmailed by his lover _and_ his wife!”

“And whose interests exactly would we be representing?”

Sherlock looked up from his screen. “The man. He doesn’t strike me as the most ethically sound person, but it’s been a while since we’ve dealt with blackmailers. I’ll get him to pay us a visit tomorrow.” 

John paced the living room, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so long getting ready, not even for a date. “Are you ready?”

“Just about. Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”

“I know you’ve already got somewhere picked out.”

Sherlock smiled. “Ah, you know me too well. I hope you’re in the mood for Chinese.”

***

It was lucky Sherlock had made a reservation, as the restaurant was packed out. The pair were lead to a small table up the back, away from the noisy families and birthday celebrations. 

“I'm not sure when I last ate,” Sherlock muttered to himself as he scanned the menu. “I think I’d put just about anything in my mouth at this point.”

John couldn’t help but smile. 

“So,” Sherlock peered over the top of his menu. “what’s the occasion?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw you dressed so nicely, except when you had to go to court to take care of that misunderstanding. You’re not going there after dinner, are you?”

John laughed. “No, I just felt like wearing something different for a change.”

“Right. Well my apologies for not following suit. Maybe next time.”

After ordering, John realised he no longer had anything to distract him from the conversation he’d been dying to have with Sherlock. There was nothing to fiddle with, nothing to sidetrack him at all. Damnit, he wasn’t ready. 

“So, uh-“

“Tell me, John. What have you been doing this week?”

“Working, I suppose.” John shrugged. “Why?”

“Well, you know what I’ve been doing, I think it’s only fair I show interest in your life too.”

“Well that’s the thing, I don’t have any idea what you’ve been doing.” John frowned. 

Sherlock leaned forward over the table. “Is that your way of asking for details?” he asked softly.

“God, no, nothing like that. I guess I’m just curious is all. In the entire time we’ve known each other Patrick is the only person you’ve introduced to me who isn’t law enforcement or your brother.”

“Phillip,” Sherlock corrected. “very well, what do you want to know?” he had planned for this. John’s curiosity always got the better of him.

“How’d you meet?”

“I met him while checking out potential crime scenes. It’s good to keep to date with all the tricks the criminal classes keep up their sleeves.” It wasn’t a lie. Sherlock was always looking for updates from his homeless network. Carl had proven to be particularly helpful.

John seemed satisfied. “What does he do?”

“A collector of sorts, very specialised. Old cars mostly.” Again, not exactly a lie.

“Doesn’t seem your type.” John mumbled. Thankfully their food had arrived, offering a brief distraction.

Sherlock smiled. “What would you know about my ‘type’, John?”

“You’re allowed to interrogate me about my dates, why can’t I do the same to you?”

“You can. You can ask whatever you like.”

John wasn’t sure how much he wanted to know. “Does he make you happy?”

Sherlock looked up from his food, chopsticks half way to his mouth. “What?”

Biting his bottom lip John reluctantly repeated himself. “Does he make you happy?”

This wasn’t something Sherlock had planned for. In his head, the conversation took a completely different route. He’d have to improvise. “No.”

The doctor was genuinely surprised. Sherlock had no qualms in lying to him, that he was sure of. So why be so honest now?

“Oh, ok. Then why do you-“

“He’s not real.”

John almost choked on his chicken. “What?”

“Phillip isn’t real. I invented him.” He admitted, annoyed. Had the evening gone according to plan, he wouldn’t have had to admit that until dessert. But something had happened, John had accepted Phillip. He wanted Sherlock to be happy without him, and that was not in the plan.

“But, but I saw him!” John stuttered. 

“That was Carl. He’s part of my homeless network, I just brushed his teeth, and put him in some nice clothes.”

John gaped at him, lost for words. “But, why?”

“Failed experiment.” Sherlock sulked.

“I knew it! I knew all this was an experiment!”

“No, just Carl.”

“Sherlock, I’m not a mind-reader like you, just tell me what you’re on about!”

Sherlock sighed and slumped into his chair. Reluctantly, he spilled everything. How he made up Phillip, his nights spent at Mycroft’s, everything except the evening he’d purposely left his bedroom door open. The entire time, John just stared at him. Sherlock couldn’t tell whether it was a good look or a bad look, but he didn’t want to push his luck finding out.

“And so here we are.”

John frowned. “So, you went to all that trouble, hell you pissed off your terrifying brother, just to find out if I was what... interested in you?”

“No, I already knew the answer to that.” Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. “I wanted to find out how I could get you to admit it to yourself.”

John wanted nothing more than to throw himself over the table, wrapping his arms around his friend’s neck and pull him into a deep embrace. He shook the thought from his mind. No, he would not go there. He couldn’t. “I... Sherlock I don’t...”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned over the table. “if that’s true then why did you kiss me back that morning? Why did you watch me pleasuring myself, and what’s more, why did it make you aroused? Why did you fall into a jealous sulk when you thought my affections were directed elsewhere? Why haven’t you been sleeping, and why have you been talking to _Mycroft_ of all people about my personal life? At least, that’s what I thought, until now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wanted me to be happy with ‘Phillip’, I guess I did misinterpret all the other evidence.”

“That,” John gawked. “is the most insane thing I’ve heard of you doing, and that’s saying a lot for you.”

Sherlock looked up, still fiddling with his chopsticks. “Why?”

“You ignored me for days, Sherlock, for _days_ , just to get my attention. That doesn’t seem insane to you?”

“ _Not_ ignoring you didn’t work. Look, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It doesn’t?”

“I give up. I have no idea what I expected anyway.”

John frowned. “You don’t give up, Sherlock.”

“Well there’s a first time for everything. I’ll stop ignoring you, I’ll stop not ignoring you, things can go back to normal.”

John had never seen Sherlock look so broken before. His sunken eyes, his hunched back, his fidgeting. 

“I-“

“It doesn’t matter.” The detective pushed his chair out and made his way for the front door, leaving John sitting alone in the back of the restaurant. 

***

While he could practically see the flat’s front door from the restaurant, John made sure to take his time walking home. He knew what he needed to do, but in the entire time he’d known Sherlock, he’d been the passive one of the pair. He was the follower, not the leader. At this point, though, what were his options? Sighing heavily, he pushed open the door to 221B.

Sherlock stood by the window playing his violin. He could see John was home, but he kept playing. The long, mournful notes filled up the flat so he hardly heard the voice behind him.

“Sherlock... Sherlock!” John shouted.

The detective turned, still holding his instrument to his shoulder. “John.”

“Can you put that down for a minute?”

“What’s the point?”

John rolled his eyes, and took the violin from Sherlock, placing it on his armchair. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly Sherlock turned to face his flatmate. John yanked on his scarf, pulling him down to face-level. 

“Did you do that on purpose?”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

John smiled and flung his arms around his friend, crushing their mouths together. It was what he’d wanted to do for weeks, but also what he’d constantly been forcing out of his mind at the same time. Much to his relief, Sherlock reciprocated, his sulky mood seemed to melt away instantly.

Sherlock ran his hands down John’s torso, pulling the tucked in shirt from his pants. The doctor moaned softly as their skin touched, warmth running up his back and consuming his body. His mouth was forced open by Sherlock’s tongue pushing against his teeth, sucking lightly on his bottom lip. 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, pulling away.

“Yes.”

Sherlock smiled kindly. It wasn’t a smile John had seen many times, but the fact that it was directed at him gave him goosebumps.

“Good.” He took John’s hand and led him to his bedroom, closing the door behind them. “Don’t worry,” Sherlock said gently, seeing the nervousness in John’s eyes. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, but there is something I’ve been thinking about for some time.”

Sherlock slowly unbuttoned John’s shirt, discarding it on the floor, before getting rid of his own coat. John suddenly felt very naked, even more so once Sherlock had removed his trousers and pants for him. The detective looked down on him hungrily, devouring every inch of John’s body. 

“Sit down on the bed.”

John obeyed but looked up at Sherlock with a look of confusion. “Why are you still fully dressed?”

“I don’t need to be naked.”

“Trust me, whatever you’re going to do, _I_ need you to be naked.”

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “If the good doctor insists.” 

Quickly stripping off, Sherlock joined John on the bed. He tangled his fingers through John’s sandy hair, pulling him in close, and trailed down his friend’s neck with soft, gentle kisses. He could feel John writhing beneath him.

John ran his hands over Sherlock’s warm body, his hands resting on his slim hips. Sherlock was now straddling him, his wavy hair falling into John’s eyes each time he leaned down to kiss him. 

“I never imagined you as such a gentle lover.” John smiled as Sherlock’s kisses moved further down his neck, to his shoulders, and to his chest.

“I don’t have to be.” Sherlock murmured. “I’m quite adaptable.”

John moaned softly as Sherlock flicked his tongue over one of his nipples. “It’s torture, not knowing what you’ll do to me.”

“Hmm, well, let’s just hope I’m not out of practice.”

Sherlock rearranged himself so that he rested all of his body weight on his left arm, positioned by John’s side. His other arm trailed its way down his body, finally resting on the doctor’s thigh. Looking up into John’s eyes, Sherlock was certain he knew what he was about to do. The dilated pupils, the flushed cheeks, but it was John’s throbbing erection that really gave him away.

Sherlock gently ran his hand over the head of John’s cock, causing the doctor’s body to tense and shudder. He took John’s shaft in his hand and started rubbing slowly. 

John closed his eyes and tried to keep calm. He had fantasised about this happening for a long time, he didn’t want it to be over too quickly. He felt Sherlock’s body move further down the bed, his spare hand running over his chest, fingernails gently digging in and leaving faint red lines down John’s torso. He could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his groin as the hand movements slowed. John didn’t dare look down.

The sensation of Sherlock running his tongue up his shaft was completely overwhelming. John gripped the blankets beneath him and gritted his teeth. “Oh god...” he muttered.

Sherlock smiled and ran his tongue further up John’s erection, circling around the head before taking the whole thing in his mouth. The salty taste of John coated the back his throat as Sherlock closed his mouth and sucked firmly. Each time a moan escaped John’s lips, Sherlock sped up, pushing his tongue up against his weeping cock. 

Slowly, John moved his hands from the bed to the back of Sherlock’s head, resting in among his curls. He wrapped his fingers in the tussles and gently guided his friend’s movements. He didn’t want to take the control away from Sherlock, but at the same time, the anticipation was driving him insane. 

Sherlock groaned as John pushed him further onto his erection, the vibration from his mouth sending shockwaves through the man underneath him. John’s hips bucked, causing Sherlock to gag slightly before recuperating and quickening his pace even more. 

“Oh god, Sherlock.”

The detective smiled as he felt John’s body tense up. He knew he was close.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s head, his nails gently digging into his scalp.

Sherlock moaned softly reaffirming his grip on John’s hips, pulling him in closer.

“Yes, Sherlock, yes...”

It only took another moment before John was crying out as the pleasure took over his body. His entire body was coated in sweat as it shuddered with delight. 

Sherlock continued licking John’s cock until he’d rid it of every last trace of his orgasm. He looked up to see his friend panting heavily, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. 

Licking his lips, Sherlock made his way back up the bed, laying on his side. “You were right.” He muttered.

“Huh?”

“I don’t just give up.”

John chuckled. “I’m very grateful.” Suddenly the realisation of what Sherlock had said struck him. “Hang on,” he turned to look at his friend beside him. “so you mean all that, you storming off at dinner... you did that on purpose didn’t you?”

Sherlock smiled. “That would be telling.”

“You owe me twenty quid.” John scoffed.

The pair lay in Sherlock’s sweat-drenched bed in silence for several minutes before John broke it.

“You might have to give me a bit longer to, you know, recover.”

Sherlock stroked John’s face softly, and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. “No, not tonight. I don’t want to rush things.”

John laughed “Rush things? Sherlock, I can taste myself on your mouth.”

“You know what I mean. I want to take time to enjoy you, I’ll need you at full strength.”

Sherlock reached down the bed to pull the blanket over them. His room was a mess, with clothes scattered across the floor, but they could deal with that later.

***

When Sherlock woke the next morning he found himself trapped under John’s sleeping body. The doctor’s head rested gently against his bare chest, rising and falling with Sherlock’s breathing. He smiled and ran his long fingers through his friend’s hair gently, careful not to stir him. 

He could hear noises downstairs, no doubt Mrs Hudson was making a fuss over something. That didn’t concern him at the moment, he wanted to enjoy the few moments of he had before John woke up. 

The noise outside grew louder, a gentle tapping turned into steady knocking and suddenly Sherlock knew exactly what it was. 

“Sherlock, are you up? There’s a-“

“No, Mrs Hudson, I’m not decent!” Sherlock called back desperately.

To no avail. Mrs Hudson stood in the bedroom doorway, silently gaping at Sherlock laying defeated in the bed, with John’s naked body sprawled across him.

“Oh...” she murmured, eyes not sure where to look. “well, it’s about bloody time, you two.”

“Hmm?” John stirred awake, his hazy eyes adjusting to the light flowing in through the door. “What’s... Mrs Hudson, what on earth?”

“I’m sorry! There’s a man to see you!” with those last words, the land lady fled the flat, slamming the door behind her. 

“Oh god.” John groaned, resting his face in his hands.

Sherlock smiled. “Good morning to you too.” He kissed John gently on the head and got up to find his clothes. 

Peeking through his fingers, John looked upon his friend’s long naked body. The body that had tortured him so for weeks, but last night had given him so much pleasure. He smiled to himself and reached to the floor for his pants. He only hoped that the man waiting for them in the living room wasn’t Lestrade, or heaven forbid, Mycroft. That was one sure fire way to ruin a perfect night.

Sherlock dressed quickly and tried to somewhat tidy his hair before leaving the bedroom. Their client was a tall, dark-haired man in his late 30s. The man introduced himself as Peter Kennedy.

“So, Mr Kennedy, you’re the man with the wife?”

“Yes, and the mistress.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together under his chin with glee. “Excellent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I put a lot of talking in this story, I generally dislike porn without plot, so this chapter is extra long to make-up for it :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a new case, John has an interesting new co-worker, and Sherlock gets what he wants

John listened to the muffled voices coming from the living room as he got dressed. He wasn’t in any rush, did he really want their new client to see him emerging, dishevelled, from Sherlock’s bedroom? Might not be the best look, but he couldn’t stay in there all morning. Quickly combing his fingers through his hair, John took one last look at himself in the mirror and cringed.  
“Goddamnit.”

 

Sherlock paced the living room, deep in thought. While he didn’t much care for the romantic problems of other people, Mr. Kennedy did present him with an interesting case. Not often was a client being blackmailed by two people out for different things. 

“So, Mr. Kennedy, what is it exactly that your wife wants?”

The man shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Money. A lot of it, actually. Half of everything I have.”

“Or she’ll... do what?”

“She’ll tell everyone about the affair. I’m running for public office next month, I can’t let it get out!”

Sherlock nodded. “John, will you be joining us?” he called.

The doctor emerged slowly from the bedroom, looking slightly worse for wear. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

Mr. Kennedy’s eyes widened as he watched John cross the floor to join them. 

Sherlock didn’t take his gaze off the client. “Go on.”

“Right,” Mr. Kennedy mumbled, watching as John rubbed his eyes and collapsed into an armchair. “Well, given your uh, situation, I guess I can be upfront.”

“You weren’t before?”

“Well, not exactly. See, my mistress is, uh, a bloke. That’s what’s so bad about it, you see.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “That is interesting. And I presume he is making the same threats as your wife?”

Kennedy nodded.

“What do they have?” John asked, still not wide awake.

“Photographs. Of, uh, me and Daniel together. She hired a private detective when she thought I was messing around. He took his own for... personal use, I suppose.”

“And now he’s threatening you with them? What does he want?”

“He wants us to be together.” Kennedy sighed. “I _told_ him when it started that couldn’t happen, not with my political career taking off. But he, he just wants more and I can’t give him that.”

Sherlock frowned. “So what you’d like is for us to, recover these photographs? We’ve done that before, but this time I have no doubt there will be copies.”

“Can’t you, uh, convince them to back off or something?”

John laughed. “What, break their legs?”

“I know I’ve done the wrong thing, I feel bad, I really do, but I need this to go away.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” Sherlock smiled. “We’ll be in touch.”

 

Stumbling into the kitchen, John put the kettle on and sat on the counter. He had slept well, but the nagging in his head wouldn’t let up.

“Why are we helping him?”

Sherlock closed the door and headed for the kitchen. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“He’s not the normal type of client you like. Seems a bit run of the mill for you, actually.”

“We need something with a bit of leg work, it’s been a while.”

John reached blindly into the cupboard. “Do you think he would have told you the truth if he didn’t think that we, you know.”

“Know what?”

“Well, he told us that he was having an affair with a man because he thought we were a couple or something.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He would have had to have told us eventually, or I would have found out, it doesn’t matter.”

“So you’re ok with him thinking we’re a couple?”

“I don’t care what he thinks.” The detective frowned, taking his mug of tea. “Why, do _you_ care?”

“I don’t know, maybe?”

“Why would you care what a stranger thinks?”

“But he’s _not_ a stranger, Sherlock, not anymore. He’s a client. What if he tells somebody?”

“Who is he going to tell?”

“I don’t know!” 

“Besides, there’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s not?”

Sherlock looked at him, slightly bewildered. “Of course not. He saw you coming out of the same bedroom as me. Now, it’s Mrs. Hudson you have to watch out for.”

“Oh god” John groaned.

“Look, it’s fine. You really are the pinnacle of paranoia, John.”

“What, so you’re ok with everyone knowing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put down his mug. “You need to stop worrying. Am I going to go around telling everybody we know that I had your penis in my mouth last night? No, I’m not. But I’m also not going to waste my time worrying about what other people do, when it’s out of my control. I want to be as discrete as you do, but there’s no point fussing about things we have no power over.”

“So, you’re...”

“I don’t have time to talk about this right now,” Sherlock interrupted, booting up his laptop. “we have a case. You start with Mrs. Kennedy, I’ll look into the lover.”

John signed heavily and joined Sherlock at the table. “What about the thing for Mycroft? It’s been over a week and I’m not entirely sure whether you’ve done it or not.”

“Boring.”

“Yeah, but you told him you’d do it.”

“I tell my brother a lot of things. If it’s important, he’ll start nagging me. Then I’ll think about it.”

“Right. Well, I’d better get ready.”

“For what?” Sherlock frowned, looking up as John made his way to the stairs.

“Work. You know, my real job.”

“Helping me is a real job.”

John smiled. “Ok, my boring job. I’ll be back around four.”

“Don’t be late!”

***

“You’re looking much better today, John!”

John smiled at his colleague as he reached his office. “Yeah, Rick, I had a bit of a rough week.”

“Well, good to see you’re back on track. I want to introduce you to someone. This is Doctor Adam Townsend, Adam, meet Doctor John Watson. Adam will be starting with us today.”

John looked up to see a tall, slender man standing before him. He must have been around John’s age, kind eyes, short wavy hair. All in all, just another doctor.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too, Doctor Watson.”

“We’re going out for some pints after work, you know, welcome our newest member of the team.” Rick piped in. “Wanna join us, John?”

“Yeah, why not?”

***

At four o’clock Sherlock decided it was about time he should eat. He’d spent all day on his computer, digging up all he could about Daniel Howard, the man Mr. Kennedy was having the affair with. John would be home any minute, then they could really get to work. Sherlock sat back in his chair, thinking about his flatmate. Would he be keen to spend the night with him again? Usually John was an open book, but that morning Sherlock had been unable to read him at all. He suspected the doctor would be having doubts, but that was ok, he could clear those up easy enough.  
By four thirty, John still was not home. Sherlock waited.

***

“Cheers!” Rick cried, raising his glass. 

John took a sip of his beer. He couldn’t remember the last time a beverage had tasted so good to him. They had been held back at the practice later than expected, and to finally get out was a god send. He needed to be out of the flat, away from work, and away from Sherlock for a while. Just to clear his head. 

“Good first day?” John asked, turning to Adam.

“Can’t complain. Better than my last gig.”

John couldn’t help but find his newest co-worker to be fascinating. While he had dozens of army stories to tell, Adam had worked in a hospital ER so had plenty of his own tales to spin.

 

As the group of doctors grew smaller, the pub grew louder, with university students and football fans filling up the joint. John didn’t realise that he and Adam were left alone until he felt a particularly rowdy group of Manchester fans bump into him. 

“Sowwy mate!” one of them slurred, struggling to hold his beer steady. 

“Maybe it’s time to head off.” Adam suggested.

John nodded and pushed his way to the door. It was dark outside, how long had they been there? Looking at his watch, John felt his stomach sink. “Oh shit.”

Adam tumbled out of the pub behind him, looking up and down the street for a taxi.

Pulling out his phone, John saw exactly what he’d expected. Four text messages, two missed calls. He didn’t have to check to see who they were from.

“Wanna get a cab?”

“I’m just on Baker Street, I can walk.” John mumbled, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

Adam started following him, adding something about him heading the same way anyway.

They walked in silence until the end of Baker Street.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?”

John stopped in his tracks and spun around.

“A what?”

“A boyfriend,” Adam frowned. “sorry, too personal?”

“I... why would you think that I have a boyfriend?”

“You’re obviously gay so-“

“I’m obviously what?” John’s eyes widened. “Why would you... what?”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise it was a touchy subject.”

“Well, I don’t. And I’m not... you know. I’m not.”

Adam nodded. “Ok, you don’t need to convince me.” 

“Yeah well, seems like I do.”

“It’s fine. I can take a hint.”

“What?” they’d finally reached 221B. “No, doesn’t matter. It was nice to meet you, Adam. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John shook his head and pushed the door open. For so long he thought he’d only have to put up with one person trying to dissect his every thought, he wasn’t sure how he could manage having two such people in his life. 

“Sherlock? Are you still up?” he called softly, entering the living room. It was after midnight, but his flatmate kept odd hours, especially on weekends.

“Long day at the office?”

John almost jumped out of his skin. The flat was dark, he could only just see the outline of Sherlock’s body through the light shining from the window.

“Something like that. We, uh, went out afterwards. 

“Nice of you to share that.”

John threw his coat onto the couch. “Yeah, sorry. I lost track of time.”

“I texted you. And called, you know how I hate calling.”

“There’s a new doctor at the practice, we just wanted to make him feel welcome.”

Sherlock got up from his chair. “Well, we have lost time to make up tomorrow.”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

“Then after you’ve finished playing doctor.”

John laughed. “I’m sorry my job is such an inconvenience.” He watched his flatmate move towards his bedroom. “Sherlock, is everything ok?”

The detective looked back at him, smiling weakly. “Yes.”

Heading over to the couch, John scrambled through his jacket pocket for his phone. He found it just as he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door click close. 

**Messages- >Inbox**

**It’s 4:30**  
 **Will you be late?**  
 **SH**

**Is everything ok?**  
 **SH**

**It’s been 2 hours.**  
 **Are you alright?**  
 **SH**

John was stricken by guilt as he read through the messages. He mustn’t have heard his phone over the noise of the pub. He opened the final message.

 **Have I done something to upset you?**  
 **SH**

John put down his phone and made his way across the room. He knocked softly on Sherlock’s bedroom door before pushing it open. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm”

The detective lay spread out on his back, his long body covering most of the bed. 

“You haven’t done anything to upset me.”

Sherlock turned his head to face the door. “So you got my messages.”

“Well, just now, yes.” John replied apologetically. “I’m sorry I didn’t fill you in, given we’d sort of made plans.”

Sherlock shrugged. “We break plans all the time.”

John smiled and lay beside him on the edge of the bed. “I’m still sorry.”

“So what’s so special about this new doctor that he gets to steal you away for the night?”

“Adam, he’s just a new doctor,” John frowned. “nice guy.”

“He’s gay.”

“What? How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock smirked. “Do you really want me to tell you how I know?”

“You know what, no, no I don’t.” John laughed, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I think he fancies me though.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

The doctor was thankful it was dark so Sherlock wouldn’t see him blushing. “He asked if I had a boyfriend.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said no.”

Sherlock nodded. “Well, that’s true.” he placed a hand gently on John’s waist. “Is he good looking?”

John laughed. “What?”

“Is he attractive?”

“I don’t know, I guess?”

“More attractive than me?”

John sat up to look down on his friend. “Where’s this coming from? Is the great Sherlock Holmes feeling insecure?”

Sherlock smiled. “No, I just like the idea that somebody else wants you but can’t have you. Even better if he’s good looking.”

“Is that so? Well, in that case he’s the most gorgeous man in the world.” John giggled, running his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled hair. 

Without warning, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s middle, pulling him on top of his body. He ran his warm hands down the doctor’s back, resting on the top of his trousers. 

John leaned forward and latched his mouth onto Sherlock’s, forcing his tongue deep inside his mouth. Sherlock moaned softly at the intrusion, tightening his grip on his friend’s waist. 

“Last night,” he said breathlessly, reluctantly pulling away. “last night I said I’d need you at full strength.”

“What did you have in mind?

“I want you to fuck me, John.”

“What?”

Sherlock smiled. “You heard what I said.”

“Yes, but I thought I might have dreamt it.”

“Please?”

“Trust me,” John smirked. “you don’t have to beg.” 

He pushed the full weight of his body back down onto Sherlock’s, forcing their mouths together again in a fit of lust. John pushed his tongue up against Sherlock’s teeth, licking at his lips as he tried to unbutton his shirt. After several unsuccessful minutes, Sherlock pushed him off in frustration.

“Dear god you’re tedious.” He muttered, ripping off his own shirt before removing John’s. 

The doctor smiled and started to fiddle with his trouser button. “Someone’s keen.”

All too soon the pair lay almost entirely stripped down, their limbs tangled and beads of sweat forming on their brows.

John pushed himself up, looking down into his friend’s eyes. He could feel his cock brushing up against his thigh, filling him with a sense of excitement and arousal, but also trepidation. “You probably already know, but I’ve never done this with a man before.” John said nervously. 

Sherlock didn’t seem bothered. “The mechanics are similar to what you’re used to, I expect.”

“OK, I just want to, you know, I don’t want to hurt you.” John bit his bottom lip. “Am I supposed to, prepare you, or something?”

“That would probably be a good idea.” The detective smiled. He wanted John to feel as comfortable as possible, but at the same time, part of him was terrified, as though it was his first time. “Do you know what to do?”

“Yeah I think so.”

“Well, ok. I trust you.”

John smiled and worked his way down the bed to remove Sherlock’s pants, freeing his semi-hard cock. He’d never been this close to another man’s genitals before, at least not in an intimate setting, but he knew he liked what he saw.

“Where do you keep your-“

“Second drawer.” 

Blindly sticking his hand out, John reached for Sherlock’s chest of drawers. He fumbled around until he found what he was looking for. The bottle of lubricant was almost empty, so either Sherlock had had it for a long time, or he’d spent many recent evenings lost in his imagination. 

While John knew what he was supposed to do in theory, he was still nervous as he made sure his hand was suitably coated. “Ok?”

“Please, John, I’m not a teenage virgin. I can handle it.”

John repositioned himself, leaning over his friend as his hand ventured down his body. He brushed gently over Sherlock’s erection, making the detective’s body shudder at the touch. That was nothing, however, compared to the reaction he got as he slowly pushed a finger inside of Sherlock’s slim, hot body. John watched as Sherlock’s eyes widened, he bit down on his bottom lip, and his entire body tensed up. Slowly, John removed his finger, before forcing it back in again, and again, and again. Each time he marvelled as Sherlock’s body reacted to his movements. 

“More.” Sherlock whispered desperately.

John obeyed, forcing his friend open wider. 

“Yes...” Sherlock breathed, his eyes closing and the slightest of smiles escaping his lips. “Ok, that’s enough.”

John swallowed hard. There had certainly been times when he’d fantasised about fucking his best friend, but even last night, as he’d lay in his bed as he went down on him, he never believed it would actually happen. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, manoeuvring his body between Sherlock’s thighs. 

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

John smiled and rubbed the remainder of the lubricant on his own throbbing erection. “You’ll need to get some more lube.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Let’s see if you’re any good first.”

John took this is as a sure sign Sherlock was ready, and without warning, pushed his entire length into his friend. 

“Oh god...” Sherlock moaned loudly, his back arching as he felt John forcing his way inside of him. “Yes that’s good, don’t stop.”

John pulled out, and pushed back in, unsure if there was anything else he should be doing. Judging by the look of pleasure plastered on his friend’s face, he guessed he was doing fine. Never before had he seen a sexual partner look so incredibly aroused as Sherlock did beneath him. Grabbing hold of Sherlock’s hips, he quickened his pace.

“Hmm, you like that, do you?” he smirked, leaning further over Sherlock’s hot, sweat-drenched body.

“Yes, yes so much, yes...” Sherlock groaned in response, grabbing the back of John’s thighs to pull him in deeper. “I’m not delicate, you don’t have to treat me like I might break.”

John smiled and started pushing himself harder, and faster. He felt like he was going to explode, but was determined not to finish first. 

“Oh god, Sherlock...” he breathed, tightening his grip on his friend’s waist. He looked down just in time to see Sherlock’s entire body shudder and twitch, his eyes snapped open and a loud moan escaped his pink lips.

“Do that again.”

The doctor had no idea how he’d done it, but he guessed he must have pressed up against Sherlock’s prostate. He repositioned himself so he could force his body in more of a downward motion. It seemed to work.

“Please don’t stop,” Sherlock moaned. His fingernails were now digging deeply into John’s thighs, the pleasure sweeping over his entire body, rendering most of it completely useless. 

John tried to block out the image of his friend’s hot, naked, aroused body before him. If he lingered to long, he knew he’d come first, and that was not an option. Gritting his teeth, he started pushing harder and faster. 

Seconds later, Sherlock’s grip on John’s legs loosened, as he came over his stomach. Sweat dripped down his face as he struggled to catch his breath. It couldn’t have come too soon for John, who came moments later, much to his relief. 

John collapsed at the end of the bed, his body shaking, adrenalin pumping through him head to foot. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an intense and all-encompassing orgasm. He glanced up to look at Sherlock who was also having trouble composing himself. He reached a shaking hand out to the bedside table for tissues, throwing the remainder of the box to John.

“If you... yeah...” was all he could murmur. 

John smiled and closed his eyes as his breathing slowly returned to normal. 

Sherlock slowly stood up, carefully wiping the mess from his torso. “You’re so messy.” He mumbled

“Me? No, that’s all you...”

“Yes, but it’s your fault.” Sherlock smirked, joining John at the end of the bed. 

“I never thought I’d do that. With anybody, least of all you.”

“I’m glad you did.” 

John leaned in to kiss Sherlock gently on his forehead. “Me too.”

The pair tidied themselves up and locked the bedroom door before going back to where they started, laying on Sherlock’s bed together, John’s head resting gently on his shoulder. He listened to his friend’s gentle breathing get softer as he slowly drifted to sleep.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re going to need more lubricant.”  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots more talking, but I promise I'll always make it worth your while to read through it ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock investigates, John gets to try something he hasn't tried before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my longest chapter by a long way (so far!).  
> Thanks for all the comments, they're very encouraging :)

The next day, John made sure he was home on time. The last thing he wanted was to make a habit out of being late. As he climbed the stairs of 221B, the flat was suspiciously quiet. John’s mind swam with the thoughts of all the things Sherlock could be doing, he braced himself for the worst; gunshots, a bomb threat, a hostage situation. Entering the living room, everything suddenly made sense.

“Hello, John.” Mycroft smiled.

“Hi.” the doctor replied before retreating to the kitchen to make tea. He could practically play out the entire conversation that was about to happen in his head. They always went the same way.

“John, you’re Sherlock’s little helper, or, whatever it is, can _you_ tell me why he hasn’t done the task I asked of him?”

“I’m his flatmate, not his babysitter.”

Sherlock smirked from his armchair. “Mycroft, we’ve been _so_ busy. Things have really been heating up around here, I just haven’t had time for your little nuisance.” 

Mycroft scowled. “I don’t ask a lot of you, Sherlock. But this is important.”

“If it’s so important, why don’t you do it?” John asked from the kitchen.

“Because, John, I have my own job to do. I was under the impression my brother was a consulting detective, so I bring him detective work that I am unable to do.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up the case folder. “What?” he asked, fingering through the pages. “Does it require my sunny personality?”

“Something like that.” Mycroft replied, standing up. “End of the week, if you’d be ever so kind. You could drop it off at mother’s birthday party.” He added sarcastically.

“Can’t, I’ve got plans that day.”

“You do?” John asked, sipping his tea.

“Yes, I plan on drowning myself to avoid going to mother’s birthday party.” The detective drawled, not looking up from the pages in front of him. “Ok, Mycroft, I’ll get this done.”

 

John didn’t emerge from the kitchen area until he was sure the elder Holmes was out of the building.

“Why don’t you want to go to your mother’s birthday party?”

“We’re not exactly what you’d call a _warm_ family,” Sherlock explained, tossing Mycroft’s case folder aside. “I try and avoid that lot as much as I can.”

“Yeah, but she’s your _mother!_ ”

“John, the woman named her sons _Mycroft_ and _Sherlock_... people like that shouldn’t be allowed to procreate. Trust me, there’s no private school in the country that’s pompous enough for us to have gotten away with those names.”

John smiled. “I like your name. It’s very...”

“Pretentious?”

“I was going to say ‘charming’, but now that you mention it...” the doctor laughed.

Sherlock passed him a stack of papers. “This is everything I’ve gathered on our client, Mr. Kennedy. Have a look at it, I’ll go get us dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I do owe you twenty quid, remember?” Sherlock smiled, grabbing his coat. 

 

Half an hour after he’d left, Sherlock made his way back up Baker Street, Thai food in hand. As he approached the flat, he saw a man standing out the front, looking up at the building with great curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

The mystery man turned to look at him. “I’m looking for Doctor Watson.”

“Adam.” Sherlock muttered.

“How did you know?” Adam smiled.

“Just a hunch. What do you want with John?”

“Oh, he left his phone at work. I thought I’d return it since he’s not in tomorrow.”

Sherlock looked Adam over with great scrutiny. John had been right, he _was_ good looking, and in that moment Sherlock decided he hated him. The irrational disdain he had for the man flooded through him. He hated his soft brown hair, his deep blue eyes, his warm smile. All of it.

“I’ll give it to him.” Sherlock offered, holding out his hand.

“I’d rather give it to him myself, I don’t even know you.”

The detective rolled his eyes and reluctantly unlocked the flat. He could hear John moving around upstairs. “John!” he called out. “You have a visitor.”

“Oh, hi, uh, Adam.” John frowned as the pair walked in the door.

Sherlock headed straight for the kitchen, putting their dinner in the oven.

Adam smiled kindly. “You left this at work.” He handed over the phone.

“Oh right thanks.”

The trio stood in the living room as awkward silence deafened the flat.

“Um, oh, Adam, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Adam, the new doctor I told you about.”

“Nice to meet you, properly at least.” Adam smiled, holding out his hand. “Sorry about downstairs, there’s lots of weirdos about.”

Sherlock scowled and shook the doctor’s hand. “Yes, we’re everywhere.”

Adam smiled nervously and headed for the stairs. “Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday then, John.”

 

Sherlock headed back to the kitchen to fetch dinner as the front door closed.

“You could have been polite at least.” John sighed, joining him.

“Why?”

“Well, it was a nice gesture.”

The detective frowned. “I don’t like him.”

“Of course you don’t!” John laughed. “You don’t like anybody!”

“I like you.”

John smiled. “Just shut up and eat.”

 

The pair spent the remainder of the night going over every scrap of information Sherlock had gathered about Mr. Kennedy, his wife, and his lover. 

“So, what are we going to do about the photographs then? Like you told the client, there must be multiple copies, and they could be anywhere.”

Sherlock leaned back in his armchair. “Yes, it certainly creates a problem. Perhaps we should pay a visit to the wife tomorrow.”

John laughed. “And say what? ‘Hi, would you mind turning over any evidence your husband has been having an affair?’’”

“I’ll think of something. Anyway, it’s late, we should really get some rest if we have any hope of getting work done tomorrow.” Sherlock mumbled, getting up and heading for his bedroom. “Good night, John.”

John sat in his armchair, puzzled. For a moment he’d thought Sherlock wanted him to join him. Clearly not. Was Sherlock the cuddling type? On the surface it certainly didn’t seem so, but he hadn’t objected when John had joined him the previous night. 

‘ _No_ ’, John told himself. ‘ _I need to spend a night in my own bed._ ’ He reluctantly climbed the stairs and collapsed onto his mattress. It had been a while since he’d gone out with Sherlock on one of their misadventures, the detective was right, he would need his rest.

 

John was woken the next morning by his phone ringing.

“Hullo?” he answered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hi, John, sorry to call so early! It’s Adam from work, uhhhhh Rick asked me to give you a ring, we’re a man down today and we need you in.”

John groaned as he sat up in his bed. “Today’s my day off. Hell, I worked _Sunday_ , I think I deserve a bloody Tuesday.”

“I know mate, I know, but, you know, desperate times and all that.”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll be in by nine.” The doctor said begrudgingly. ‘ _Think of the money_ ’ he told himself.

“Good man! We’ll see you soon then!”

John hung up and tossed his phone to the end of his bed. As much as he didn’t want to go to work, the worst part would be telling Sherlock.

 

“But it’s your day off!” Sherlock objected. “From that job anyway, you and I were going to get some real work done today.”

John rested his head in his hand at the kitchen table. His flatmate could be so difficult to negotiate with. 

“Well, people get sick every day of the week, there’s not much I can do about that.”

Sherlock was pacing the kitchen, angrily muttering under his breath. “Wait, who called you?”

“Oh god, look Sh-“

“It was him, wasn’t it? I _knew_ I didn’t like him!”

John sighed. “He called on behalf of my boss. If you’re going to hate anybody, hate my boss.”

“Don’t tell me who to hate.”

“I’ll do a half day, come home, and we can get started on this case, ok?”

Sherlock sat sulking, slumped at the kitchen table. John knew there was no point arguing any longer.

“I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way home, ok?”

“Hmm.”

 

Sherlock sat at the table for another twenty minutes, watching his tea go cold. As much as John didn’t want to admit it, there was something fishy about Adam, and he was determined to find out what. 

***

The practice was packed by the time John got there just before nine. Bracing himself for the onslaught, he pushed his way through patients and nurses to reach his office. He felt bad about ditching Sherlock last minute, but his income from the practice was his only regular source of money, something his flatmate conveniently chose to ignore. Sinking into his office chair he pulled out his phone.

**Sorry about this morning.**  
 **I’d much rather be with you.**  
 **J**

No sooner had he pressed ‘send’ did he get a reply.

**I can think of some ways you can make it up to me.**  
 **Tonight.**  
 **SH**

A shiver ran down John’s back as he re-read the message. A couple of weeks ago he’d have assumed Sherlock meant he wanted help with an unpleasant experiment he was doing, or worse, but now it filled him with excitement. Smiling, he pressed on his intercom.

“Send the first patient in.”

***

Sherlock made his way through the crowded marketplace. It was a spot he generally avoided, but he needed one final item for the evening he had planned. It would be worth the trip. 

He pushed past all the green grocers and the flower stalls until he found the specialty store he was looking for. Not soon enough, either.

“It’s complicated, I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing that can be explained.”

Sherlock spun around on hearing the familiar voice. John was sitting outside the Vietnamese bakery, with none other than the detective’s latest enemy. 

“Well,” Adam said, looking down at his watch. “we don’t have to be back for another fifteen minutes. Give it a go.”

Sherlock could barely hear over the crowds. He quickly slipped into a group to get closer, taking a table behind the pair. 

“Why do you care anyway?”

Adam shrugged, sipping his coffee. “I don’t, not particularly. But you said you were single, I already know what you do for a living, I’ve gotta start somewhere.”

“Well, Sherlock’s my friend, my best friend.” John explained, fiddling with his tea spoon. “We started living together a bit over a year ago, just for convenience, and it stuck. Not a terribly interesting story, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve read your blog, it seems pretty interesting.”

“Oh, yeah, that. Well, I guess I’m never bored with Sherlock.”

“But he’s not your boyfriend?”

John frowned. “I’m not gay.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Adam smiled. 

“No, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He clearly cares about you, judging by how he reacted to me.”

“Ha,” John scoffed. “no, that’s just how he is. Don’t take it personally.”

“Interesting.”

John shuffled uneasily in his seat. “We should head off if we’re going to be back on time.”

“I’m right behind you.” Adam smiled, finishing off his coffee. He watched John push his way through the lunch rush until he was out of sight. “Sherlock? It’s not polite to spy on people.”

“Funny,” the detective replied, taking John’s vacant seat. “it’s not polite to pry either. What are you playing at?”

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s so suspicious about two co-workers having coffee?”

Sherlock scowled. “Ordinarily I’d say nothing, but in this case I think we know that’s not entirely true, is it?”

“John did say you were brilliant. I think that brilliance has turned into paranoia. Now,” Adam dropped his coffee cup on the table. “I really should be getting back.”

“Stay away from John.” Sherlock called after him.

The doctor turned around. “Make me.”

***

Sherlock spent the remainder of his day sitting by the window deep in thought. While he detested being bored, he now found his mind flooded with information. He had his client, Mycroft’s trivial issue, and now Adam to deal with. He found himself spending a disproportionate amount of time focused on the latter, much to his annoyance. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was wrong. Sherlock was so entranced in his mind-rambling he didn’t hear John come up the stairs.

“Home at three!” The doctor exclaimed, removing his coat. “That’s a first. Sherlock?”

Sherlock snapped out of his trance. “Hmm? Oh yes, hello John.”

“Productive day?”

“In a way.”

“So, are we going to get on that case today? You know, go and see Mr. Kennedy’s wife?”

Sherlock got up out of his chair and headed for his laptop. “You are, I have that Mycroft thing to do.”

John frowned. “I’m going by myself?”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult. Your people skills are better than mine anyway.”

“But, I thought we were doing this together?”

“You’ve done things like this without me before. I’m sure it’ll be fine, John. I trust your judgement.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the computer as his fingers tapped away at the keyboard.

“Well, ok, if that’s what you want.”

“Hmm.”

John picked up the scrap of paper Sherlock had left on the desk with the Kennedy’s address and headed for the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, fine, fine.” The detective mumbled. He waited until John had left before he retrieved Mycroft’s case file and opened it. 

_Benjamin Cassidy, ex-pat from the United States, gang affiliations, suspected of murdering two US senators and Detective Nick Costalo of the NYPD._

Sherlock skim read the rest of the file, Mycroft wanted him to determine whether or not Cassidy was now in London. Sherlock knew that if his brother was asking him, he already knew the answer. What he needed was proof. Picking up the mug shot in the file, Sherlock studied the man’s face. Shaved head, green, tired eyes, crooked nose, stubble, he certainly wasn’t anything special, yet Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling he was familiar. 

Shaking his head Sherlock tossed the photo aside. It would come to him eventually. He clicked into his internet search bar and typed ‘ _Adam Townsend_ ’. He had resisted the urge to pry further for long enough. 

 

John didn’t return to the flat until almost six o’clock.

“Well that was a waste of time!” he grumbled, slumping into his armchair.

“No good?”

“The woman, Mr. Kennedy’s wife, she invited me in for tea.”

“That was nice of her.” Sherlock replied, transfixed on his computer.

“Yeah, and she kept me there for over two hours! She certainly has a mouth on her.”

“Did she say anything helpful?”

John sighed. “Only that she wasn’t interested in cooperating with us. Really, Sherlock, I feel so bad for her, she-“

“And that’s why I sent you.” Sherlock looked up at his flatmate for the first time since he’d got home. “You can see the human element in our cases.”

“They have two kids, and her... _scumbag_ husband is going around having an affair! She seems perfectly nice too.”

“Do you think we should drop him as a client?”

John looked up in surprise. “You want to drop him?”

“Well, if he’s an unsavoury character, maybe we should. Seems like he’s the villain in all this, and you know how I feel about villains.” 

“I don’t want to help an adulterer.”

Sherlock smiled, putting his laptop on the coffee table. “Then we won’t. I’ll inform him tomorrow. Now, look at this.” He spun the screen around so John could see.

“What am I looking at?”

“Did you know there’s no record of your new best friend before 1990?”

John frowned. “Who?”

Sherlock ignored the question. “He graduated from The University of Edinburgh in 2003, spent some time working in ERs around Manchester, Leeds, Liverpool, before moving to London in 2010. That’s what the hospital records say anyway, but I rang-“

“Are you talking about Adam again?” John laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“You are! I’ve never seen you _so_ transfixed on someone before, especially someone who’s not even involved in a case! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Sherlock scowled. “Why would I possibly be jealous?”

John leapt up from his chair. “You are! You’re jealous!” try as he might, the doctor couldn’t hide the grin now spread across his face. 

“No, I just think that-“

“What can I do to put your giant mind and bruised ego to rest?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock sulked, crossing his arms defensively.

John walked around the coffee table to sit on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “Well, I do owe you, remember? If I recall, you had some ideas as to how I could repay you for running out this morning.”

Sherlock tried to stay focused, but as he felt John’s warm hand rest on his shoulder, and move down his neck under his shirt, his body betrayed him. “N-no, I don’t think so.”

“Oh I do.”

“Well, never mind that, I got distracted and-“

Sherlock was silenced by John pushing against his chest with his free hand, forcing the detective’s body back further into his chair.

“Well, that’s ok. I have a few ideas of my own.” John smiled, leaning in to kiss Sherlock gently on the mouth. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as the warmth from John’s lips spread through him. He suddenly forgot about his sleuthing, his anxiety over his friend’s new co-worker, and instead was completely overcome by the urge to run his hands all over John’s body.

John pushed his mouth harder against Sherlock’s, compelling his head back, and exposing his neck. The doctor felt Sherlock’s body shudder as he slowly kissed his way down his neck, fiddling with his shirt buttons as he went. 

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” John murmured between kisses. “for a long time actually, but more so for the past few days.”

“Hmm?”

“Something I haven’t done before.”

Sherlock smiled. “Hmm, well there’s been a bit of that lately.”

“Ever since our first night together I’ve been wondering what you taste like.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over his friend inquisitively. “Really?”

“Really.” John bit his lip nervously. “I don’t know what it is, but the thought of it is just so... hot.”

“Mm, well, I suppose if you really wanted to make up for running out on me this morning...”

“Oh trust me,” John sighed, reattaching his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, biting lightly. “I do.”

“In that case, step into my office.” Sherlock smiled as he stood up and took John by the hand to lead him into his bedroom. The detective used his spare hand to finish unbuttoning his shirt, and threw it on the floor as the pair reached his room. 

John pulled on Sherlock’s trousers, letting them fall to the floor before he pulled off his own shirt. “I want you to tell me what to do.”

Sherlock looked at him, confused. “It’s, um, not very difficult.”

“I know that, but I like the idea of you telling me what you want me to do. Instructing me.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock smirked, running his fingers through John’s hair. “if you insist.” He took two steps backwards and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here.”

John moved forward slowly, taking his time to absorb the sight of Sherlock sitting before him in his pants, looking up at him with his big green eyes full of lust. He manoeuvred out of his trousers before straddling his friend, his bodyweight pushing them both further back onto the bed. John took Sherlock’s hands in his own, pinning them to his side as he pushed his tongue past the wall of teeth and deep into the detective’s mouth.

Sherlock moaned softly, eagerly kissing John back, biting softly on his bottom lip. The thin layers of fabric between them wasn’t enough to hide the fact that he was aroused, and desperate for John to do something about it. He didn’t have to wait long. John released his grip on Sherlock and moved his hand further down his friend’s bare body and into his pants. 

Sherlock let out a soft moan as John’s warm hand ran the length of his growing erection, sending shivers through his entire body.

“More.” He sighed.

John smiled and complied, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s shaft and pulling gently. The reaction was instant, Sherlock closed his eyes and his entire body relaxed giving John a chance to dispose of the final barrier once and for all. 

Tossing Sherlock’s pants on the floor, John moved down the bed so his head was at crotch level. He planted gentle kisses on his inner thigh, causing his friend to shudder and writhe beneath him. John had no doubt that Sherlock could feel his warm breath on his cock every time he ran his tongue so torturously close to where he wanted it to be.

“John, please...”

The doctor smiled. “ _Don’t ask me, tell me._ ”

“Suck me,” Sherlock groaned. “I want to feel your tongue on my cock.”

John suppressed a giggle. He loved hearing Sherlock, with his oh so posh voice say words like ‘cock’. It reminded him of who he was really with, someone so proper, who he could reduce to a hot mess with nothing more than a touch.

He’d never gone down on a man before, but instinctively John knew what to do. He ran his tongue slowly up the length of Sherlock’s cock, pausing at the top before working his way back down.

“Oh yes... more.”

John repeated his action, savouring the look in what little he could see of Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock bit down harder on his lip, preventing another moan from escaping. “More... mouth... lips...” he whispered.

Running his tongue up his friend’s erection one last time, John lingered at the top, allowing his top lip to dip over the head.

Sherlock gasped as the heat from John’s mouth ran the length of his cock. He held his breath, trying to control his arousal. 

John wrapped his lips tight around Sherlock and started sucking lightly. He quickly fell into a steady, but slow rhythm, not wanting to push either of them over the edge too quickly. 

Digging his fingernails into his palms, Sherlock tried to keep his breathing balanced. He glanced down the bed, catching a glimpse of John running his mouth up his erection. Sherlock snapped his eyes closed, he _couldn’t_ have that image in his mind.

“More tongue.” He instructed, trying not to let his voice shake. 

John obliged, swirling his tongue around the tip of Sherlock’s cock, sucking harder as he started moving faster. 

Sherlock bucked his hips, causing John to gag as his erection forced its way down his throat. 

“Sorry.” 

John smiled. “I might have to work my way up to that.”

“Finish me.” Sherlock mumbled, relaxing his body back on the bed.

“Is that an order?”

“Yes, now.”

John lowered his mouth back onto Sherlock’s shaft, picking up where he’d left off. He worked his tongue over the tip, licking up the pre-come that had escaped. John wasn’t sure if he liked the taste or not, but the knowledge that he could have that affect on a man such as Sherlock was such a turn-on for him, he didn’t care. 

Entwining his fingers through John’s hair, Sherlock started moving his friend’s head faster on his cock. His grip tightened every time he felt his friend’s skilled tongue run over his tip.

“I’m close, don’t stop.” He moaned softly.

John sucked more fervently, eager to appease his lover. He felt the telltale signs perhaps before Sherlock even had a chance to feel them. 

His body tensed and his back arched, and seconds later Sherlock came, the pleasure sweeping over his hot body. He released John’s head from his grasp, allowing the doctor to look down at him, evidence of what he’d been doing dripping from his lips. 

Sherlock breathed heavily as his head spun. In his previous sexual encounters, oral sex had been a rarity, but he was suddenly reminded of why he liked it so much. He tugged on John’s shoulder, pulling him back up the bed.

“You’re a natural.” He smiled.

John licked his lips. “Really? Well... good.” He kissed Sherlock lightly on the cheek. 

“Now, what are we going to do about you?”

“Me? Sherlock, you look like you’ve just ran a marathon!”

Sherlock ignored him. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“But Sh-“

“The offer is good for five more seconds.” The detective smirked, finally catching his breath.

John struggled out of his pants, freeing his straining erection. He moved across the bed to Sherlock’s chest of drawers, pleasantly surprised to see that his friend had replenished his supplies. He started coating his fingers with the lubricant before being interrupted.

“No, don’t bother with that.”

John frowned. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Sherlock, that’d really hurt.”

“Just do yourself, it’s fine.”

“But-“

“I’ve done it before, I can do it again.”

Knowing when he was beat, John finished preparing himself. He was careful to handle his cock gently, wary that too much friction would be too much for him to take.

“Turn over, on your knees.” He instructed Sherlock. “Don’t worry, I don’t think you’ll be there for long.”

John was careful to push in slowly, still wary of hurting his friend. 

“Hmm, I’ve missed this.” Sherlock mumbled, his head pressed firmly against the mattress. 

“Is that ok?”

“Mm.”

John pushed in further, the heat from Sherlock’s body spreading to his own. Sherlock was much tighter than the last time, but it didn’t matter, John didn’t need to last for long.

He pulled out, gripping onto Sherlock’s thin hips before pushing back in. 

“Oh god, Sherlock.” John moaned softly as he quickened his pace. Ordinarily he would have been embarrassed at lasting such a short time, but this time it didn’t matter. 

John dug his nails into Sherlock’s soft white skin as he pulled him harder onto his cock.

Sherlock moaned softly, the faint sound of his arousal enough to push John over the edge. He collapsed onto his friend’s back as he came, his sweaty chest pressing up against Sherlock’s cool back.

Pulling out, John rolled over onto his back.

“That was quick.” 

“I make no apologies this time.” John panted.

Sherlock smiled and joined him. “Hmm, well just don’t make a habit of it.”

***

The next couple of days were unremarkable for John. He went to work, Sherlock stayed at home. He had assured John he was finally working on the case Mycroft had given him and for the first time, John actually believed him. Each day when he returned to the flat, Sherlock was hunched over his laptop with a look of frustration painted across his face. 

“Have you been out of the flat at all over the past few days?” John asked. It was Thursday evening, and he’d just gotten home to find Sherlock huddled up in his armchair, surrounded by pieces of paper. He was still in his pyjamas.

“Hmm? Yes, I stepped out yesterday to see some contacts.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that really counts as going out. Come on, we’re going to have dinner.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock replied, glaring at his computer screen. “working. This Benjamin Cassidy character won’t find himself.”

John sighed and slammed the laptop closed. “You’re not going to find him on an empty stomach. Come on, we’ll go to Anton’s.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock put on some clothes and headed out. He knew John was right, but it’d never taken him this long just to _find_ somebody before. How hard could it be, for someone like him?

The pair took their usual table by the window, with John ordering for Sherlock. He knew if he didn’t then he’d end up being the only one to eat. 

Sherlock was on edge, carefully examining each person who walked by on the street outside.

“Sherlock, he’s not just going to walk into the restaurant. Just, switch off for a moment, will you?”

Rolling his eyes the detective conceded. “Mr. Kennedy called today. He’s begging us not to drop him.”

John shrugged, poking at his dinner. “Too bad.”

“That’s what I said.”

The doctor smiled. Sherlock wasn’t a particularly sentimental man, but he did love seeing John happy. The way his eyes lit up, the creases on the edges of his mouth the-

Sherlock’s train of thought was interrupted as something caught his attention outside. It was dark, but he could make out a man standing by the street, staring through the window. He was wearing a hoodie, but Sherlock could still see his eyes. Eyes looking directly at him filled with hatred and scorn.

Sherlock dropped his fork.

“What is it?” John asked, concerned. He turned around to see what had taken his friend’s attention.

The man had gone.

“What?”

“It... it was him.” Sherlock stuttered, wide eyed.

“Who?”

“Benjamin Cassidy, but it wasn’t.”

John frowned. “What are you on about?”

Sherlock turned to look at his companion. “Adam.”

“I thought it was Cassidy?”

“It is. They’re the same person.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen the picture of Cassidy, it doesn’t look anything like Adam.”

“Trust me, John. That look... he looked straight at me. He had such revulsion and disgust in his gaze... a look I’ve become all too familiar with lately.”

“But he’s a doctor!”

“John, when was the last time I was wrong?”

“I know but-“

“Trust me, I’m not wrong now."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just can't catch a break (understatement of the year).

Sherlock jumped out of his seat, leaving John alone, bewildered in the restaurant. 

“Cassidy!” Sherlock yelled, running out into the middle of the road. He looked frantically around for any sign of the fugitive, but all he saw were the confused faces of fellow Londoners, gawking at the lunatic screaming in the street. 

“If it’s Cassidy, he’s not going to hang around, is he?” John asked, making his way out to the road. “Now get back on the foot path, people are staring.”

Sherlock swore under his breath. “At least we know where he’ll be.”

John laughed. “If you’re right, and I don’t think you are, he’s not just going to turn up at work tomorrow, is he?”

“He might.” Sherlock mumbled. “He’s toying with me. Do you remember, in the file from Mycroft, it said he killed that NYPD detective? That was the last person who was assigned to catch him.”

“So... your brother is sending you after a man who has a history of killing people who try and find him?”

“Well, it’s not the _worst_ thing Mycroft has ever done.” Sherlock shrugged. 

 

The pair made their way quickly back to the flat. Sherlock tore Benjamin Cassidy’s mug shot from the file and stuck it on the middle of the living room wall.

John looked at it carefully. “I still don’t see it.”

“Of course _you_ don’t.” The detective scoffed. “Draw some hair on him, fix his nose and give him a shave, it’s Adam. I’m certain.”

“Sherlock, I really think you’ve lost it this time.” 

“Your differing opinion doesn’t undermine my own observation, John.” Sherlock told him, flipping through pages on his lap. 

“No, I’m serious. You’ve been... weird recently. Weird even for you. You’re a man of reason and the most rational person I know. Even putting aside all of your, let’s say weird courting attempts, you’ve just not been yourself for the past week or two.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his work. 

“Yes you do, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Ever since we started, well,” John shuffled his feet nervously. “being intimate, you’ve been really paranoid.”

“It has nothing to do with that. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

John laughed. “You _always_ have a lot on your mind! This is different, you’ve started drawing ridiculous conclusions about someone you barely know based on a look a man gave you in a dark street through a window! If anyone else made the claims you’ve made, you’d say they were absurd!”

Sherlock slammed his fists down on the table. “I know what I saw!”

“I think you’ve started seeing what you want to see. You’ve found someone you’ve decided you don’t like and now you’re inventing reasons not to like him.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Of course I wouldn’t, because I’m an idiot, right?”

“Yes, you are!” the detective snapped. He regretted it instantly as he saw John’s face drop.

“Fine. Do what you have to do, but you’ll be doing it without me until you get your act together.” John turned for the door, headed for the stairs.

“Wait, I’m sorry!”

The doctor didn’t stop. “No you’re not!”

Sherlock considered going after him, but decided against it. Nothing good could come of them talking about it any further. Not until later, anyway. There was always later.

***

John sat at his desk, head throbbing. He hadn’t slept well. The fight he’d had with Sherlock the previous night replayed over and over in his mind, adding to the discomfort. His flatmate had called him an idiot plenty of times before, but not like last night. That was the first time he’d really meant it. For a change, John was pleased the practice was quiet; he wasn’t sure how he’d go dealing with people all day.

“Everything alright, John? You look terrible.” A voice from the door asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” John replied, not lifting his head from his desk. “bad night.”

Adam smiled and stepped into his office. “Drinking or domestic troubles?”

“Just stuff.”

“Hmm, well that’s the worst, isn’t it?

John chuckled. “You have no idea.”

“Maybe you should go home.”

“Trust me, home is the last place I want to be right now.”

Adam sat down on the other side of the desk. “Ah, so it _is_ domestic.”

“He’s completely lost the plot! I can deal with all the weird little idiosyncrasies, the mood swings, the arrogance, but a man can only put up with so much.”

“Anything I can help with?”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, Sherlock would love that. He’s got it in his head that you want to steal me away from him, oh and you’re also an American fugitive, and goodness knows what else! He’s brilliant, a true genius, but even genius has its limits.”

“Sounds like you need a holiday.”

“Ha, yeah, that’ll be the day.”

“I’m serious, get away from the flat for a few days and see if he comes to his senses.”

John sighed. “I think that might actually make things worse.”

“He’s dependent on you, isn’t he?”

“No, but he’d see it as an act of rejection. I’m sure Sherlock is used to that, but not from me. I seem to be one of the few people who can actually get through to him.”

“And yet he still thinks I’m out to rule the world, right?” Adam smiled.

“Something like that.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “Ah I don’t know, I might see if I can stay at my sister’s tonight, just to give him a chance to cool off.”

“That sounds like a great idea.”

***

On his way home, John rehearsed his speech in his head. He never performed particularly well when he had something to tell Sherlock, but he was determined to do this right.

Judging by the state of the living room, the detective hadn’t left the flat all day. Coffee mugs were strewn all over the place, papers were pinned haphazardly on the walls, and Sherlock sat in the middle of it all, curled up in his armchair. 

“Any progress?” John asked, looking around the room in bewilderment. 

“Was he at the practice today?” Sherlock mumbled.

“I’m not going over this with you, Sherlock. I’m having no part in your witch hunt.”

“That’s a ‘yes’ if ever I heard one. Interesting.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. He carefully worked his way amongst the mess, or ‘work’ as Sherlock would call it, that covered the floor. “Look, Sherlock, I’m going to be staying at Harry’s tonight.”

The detective’s eyes snapped up from his stare. “Why?”

“Because I’m worried if I stay here tonight I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“Absurd, I don’t have time to sleep.”

“Sherlock! You’re driving me insane! I’ve put up with a lot from you, but I’m at my wit’s end. I need a night off from the madness.” John yelled. He’d planned on keeping his cool, trying to be rational, but all that had gone straight out the door.

“Whatever you need to do, John.”

The doctor was shaking with rage. It would have been better if Sherlock had yelled back because his complete indifference was infuriating. 

“Don’t pretend to care or anything.” John scoffed as he headed for the stairs.

“What is there to care about?” Sherlock asked. He still hadn’t moved from his chair. “You are an adult, you make your own choices.”

John was on his last nerve. “You’re supposed to care about me! But apparently that’s too difficult, isn’t it!” Not waiting for a response, he headed up to his own room, threw a change of clothes into a bag, and ran out of the flat. 

 

Sherlock shuddered as he heard the front door slam. Ordinarily when John stormed off he’d head to the window and watch him leave, but this was different. John was angry with him. Not like the other times, this was worse than usual. Sherlock was used to people thinking he was odd, arrogant, he was even used to being hated. It had never bothered him, he had a thick skin. Something, however, about John’s face as he left stuck in his mind. He’d had tears in his eyes. He hadn’t been crying, but he’d seen it. To his knowledge, Sherlock had never had that affect on someone before. Usually the people who were angry at Sherlock were people he didn’t care for anyway. Police officers, criminals, his family... but John was different. Contrary to what he’d said, Sherlock _did_ care. He cared so deeply, he couldn’t bring himself to walk to the window to see his friend leave. He couldn’t bring himself to watch as he walked across the road, only to be pushed into a van. He couldn’t bring himself to see the van speed away with the only person he truly cared for inside. Instead, he sat.

***

John’s world went black as he felt something tugged over his head. Every time he tried to vocalise some kind of protest he was rewarded by a punch to the gut, so quickly decided it was in his best interest to keep silent. He felt the van bump around as it sped through the street, away from his home. After half an hour of twisting and turning John felt himself being yanked out of the van, pushed along by a strong, unyielding hand. Eventually the hand let go and John suddenly felt very isolated and alone. 

“You know, I’ve been kidnapped before. It’s all getting a bit old.” He called out to nobody in particular, sounding much braver than he felt.

“I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.” A voice replied. It was a familiar but with a subtle American drawl.

“Goddamnit.” John mumbled. “Sherlock’s going to be a right pain in the arse.”

Adam grinned as he pulled the hessian bag off of the doctor’s head. “Is that so?”

“He always is so insufferable, but especially when he’s got one over me. I hate it when he’s right.”

“That’s why _he’s_ the detective and _you’re_ the sidekick, John.”

The doctor sighed. Looking around, he saw shadowy figures standing around the dark, dirty room. They appeared to be in some kind of old house, and while he was no longer restrained in any way, he had a feeling that fleeing would be an unwise decision.

“So what now? You want to call Sherlock so he can come and... what rescue me? Sub in for me? What’s the game?”

Adam frowned, taking a step closer to John. “You’re not taking this very seriously, are you?”

John was reminded of his first meeting with Mycroft Holmes, someone he knew he should have feared, but after having seen and experienced so much in Afghanistan, few things truly frightened him anymore. 

“You know how it is, after you’ve been kidnapped a couple of times you learn to just go with the flow.” He scoffed. “So, what do we call you now, do you prefer Benjamin?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Adam shrugged. “you won’t be here long enough for it to count.” He pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, twiddling it between his fingers as he stared down at John. “I’ll be taking you home, to your home in fact.”

“Why?”

“I need you to get what I want. I need to send a message, and what better message to send than Sherlock’s best friend in bits and pieces?”

“So, you want to kill _me_ , but not Sherlock?”

“You’re both more useful to me if you’re alive. For now, anyway.”

John chuckled. “We’ve already got one of those, a mad arch enemy, I mean.”

“I have no interest in being anybody’s enemy.” Adam growled, still slowly making his way towards John. “I am under orders to- never mind that. Let’s just say I have my instructions and the powers that be do not want Sherlock dead. Not yet.”

“What about me? I’m a nobody!”

Adam smirked. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Doctor Watson. You are the key to unravelling Sherlock Holmes. Without you, he is just another man.”

“So, you kept asking me about him to determine, what? Whether he cared about me?”

“It was pretty obvious for the start. My first instinct was the brother, but after meeting him once I failed to see how anybody could have any affection for such a person, so the next logical step was his little housemate.”

John’s eyes widened. “Y-you met Mycroft?”

Adam ignored the question. He was within arms-length, his deep green eyes piercing through John’s. “I know how to get what I want. Now, hold out your hand. The right one, if you don’t mind.”

For the first time since leaving the flat, John felt afraid. He’d bought as much time as he could, it seemed Sherlock wasn’t coming after all.

“Hold out your hand,” Adam repeated menacingly. “or I’ll take your whole arm.” 

John raised his shaking hand, his eyes not leaving the other man’s gaze. Any hope he’d had of a daring escape was now gone. He could run, but he had no doubt he’d lose more than a hand if he did.

“Peter? The board.”

John’s eyes darted around the room. He saw a tall man in black step forward holding a slab of wood. The horrible realisation of what was going to be done to him came crushing down, and for the first time in a long time, John felt entirely helpless. Why hadn’t he listened to Sherlock? Why hadn’t he believed him? He should have known, the damned man was always right. _Always!_ And this, this would be his punishment for doubting him.

“Adam...” 

“You know what I’m going to do, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. But don’t worry, I’m nothing if not merciful. I don’t need to take your whole hand to make my point.”

Adam grabbed John sharply by the wrist, pressing it firmly into the block the man Peter had brought over. As he flicked the knife between his fingers, John could see the calculating look in Adam’s eyes.

“Eenie, meenie, miney, moe... let’s start small.”

His breath shaking, his leg aching, his mind racing, John closed his eyes. The pain of the knife digging into his flesh, pressing against the bone in his little finger, being hammered through him was excruciating. His kidnapper certainly wasn’t being careful. It took all of his self control not to cry out in pain. 

“Stay still, John.” Adam mumbled. “I want my present for Sherlock to look nice. You wouldn’t wa-“

He was interrupted by voices yelling outside. 

John opened his eyes, the sight of his own mangled digit burning into his mind. 

“Cops!” somebody cried. 

The colour from Adam’s face drained. He dropped his knife and signaled for his companions to get out of the house. 

“Looks like your pal isn’t so useless after all. Tell him, next time it’ll be your neck.” He spat, before disappearing into the shadows.

“Spread out! They’re doin’ a runner!”

John frantically looked for where the voice was coming from. His hand was gushing blood, even though half his finger was still attached. The pain had seeped up to his wrist, making his whole limb feel like dead weight. 

“H...help!” he cried out to nobody in particular. “Help!”

“John?” Lestrade came running out of the darkness, torch in hand. “John, what the hell are you doing here!?” the DI looked down at John gripping his bloodied hand, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

“I need a hospital.”

***

John trudged back to 221B Baker Street shortly before four in the morning. Lestrade had taken him to the hospital to get stitched up before dropping him home. He’d wanted to walk John up, just to make sure he was safe, but the doctor assured him he was fine.

Much to John’s disappointment, Sherlock had not called the police, Lestrade told him. A neighbour had noticed somebody with a gun patrolling the building and notified the authorities. 

Promising he’d come into the Yard later that afternoon, John climbed the flat stairs. Glancing into the living room he could see Sherlock’s dark outline, still curled up in his armchair. He hadn’t moved in the hours since their fight. John considered waking him but thought better of it. Nothing he had to say couldn’t wait until the morning.

Turning for the stairs, a floor board by the door creaked.

“John?”

The doctor froze, unsure whether to stay or not. Truth be told, he was still angry and the pain in his hand wasn’t helping his thinking.

“Yes?” He didn’t turn around.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness. “What happened to staying with your sister?”

“Change of plans.”

Getting up out of his chair, Sherlock slowly padded his way across the room. “What happened to your hand? Why is it bandaged?”

“Nothing.” John pulled it to his chest, out of sight. 

"It doesn't look like nothing."

John gritted his teeth. "You'll be happy to know you were right. There, happy?" He spun around, looking up into his flatmate's eyes. "You got to be right _and_ you got to show how little you care about me."

Sherlock frowned. "I was right, you mean, about Adam?" His eyes darted to John's hand. "He hurt you?"

John could see the anger building inside of Sherlock. As good as he was at hiding his emotions most of the time, there were some things he just couldn't hide from John.

"He hurt you?"

Nodding silently John broke eye contact, looking down at the floor to avoid Sherlock reading him. He knew if he kept eye contact he'd see right through him, see the fear, the pain, and the loneliness that were consuming him. 

It wasn't often Sherlock found himself in a position where he was the only one to offer comfort, he generally made a point to avoid such situations. In this instance, however, a sense of loathing swept over his body. It took all of his self control not to grab John's gun and head out into the street. No, that could wait.   
Taking a step closer to John, Sherlock rested a hand on his shoulder, testing the waters. When the doctor didn't pull away, he draped his other arm around his back, pulling him into a hug.   
John was trembling as he tried to hold in the tears that were welling up in his eyes. He rested his head on Sherlock's chest, giving in to the embrace.

"I won't let him hurt you again. I won't let anybody hurt you again." Sherlock whispered softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter needed writing to make way for the second half of the story. Planning on 15 chapters at this point, but plans have a way of changing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's finger has seen better days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long! I'm abroad at the moment so updating is a little tricky (free wifi is a little scarce) but I'll try for once a week until I get home. I hope some readers will stick around despite my delay, I'm just over half way through the story (but there's no point writing something nobody's reading). Anyway, thanks for your patience.

It took a week for John to tell Sherlock the whole story. In that time, the detective silently helped his friend change his bandages, sneaking looks to determine what was going on in John’s head, but found only blankness. Even though he’d spent every waking minute researching, tapping into contacts, and searching the streets of London, Sherlock was no closer to finding Benjamin Cassidy, he seemed to have disappeared altogether.

“Maybe he really has gone?” John suggested one morning over breakfast. He had finally told his flatmate what had happened the previous night, after holding off as long as he could. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed (he was used to that), or scared for himself, he was worried about what affect the information would have on Sherlock. In the end, he realised his friend would find out either way.

“No.” Sherlock mumbled, hands delicately resting on his chin. “He’s here, he has unfinished business.”

“With you?” John smiled. “You’re building quite a fan club, aren’t you? First Moriarty, then Irene Adler, now this guy?”

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. “This isn’t about him. Cassidy works for someone else, not for himself. It’s his boss who’s interested in me.”

“You’re too clever for your own good.”

The detective scrunched his brow and his eyes darted to meet John’s. “What is it?”

“What’s what?” John frowned over his tea.

“You always do that, make off-handed jokes when you’ve got something important you want to tell me. What is it?”

John fidgeted awkwardly with his toast. “Well, I was thinking, it’s been a week, maybe you could, you know, take another case for a while?”

“Why would I do that when this one isn’t solved yet?”

“I’ll be going back to work in a couple of days so-“

“No you won’t.” Sherlock stood up from the table, taking long strides to his crime wall in the living room.

“What?”

“John, how am I supposed to keep an eye on you if you’re at work? As delightful as I find your company normally, I haven’t been chaining you to my side for the past week just for the chit chat.”

The doctor smiled. “It’s fine, Sherlock, it’s not like he’s going to come back to the practice.”

“Oh, is this the same man who threatened to kill you?”

“I know, but-“

“Not that long ago I told you he was dangerous, I told you he was a murderer and you ignored me. Look what happened.” Sherlock gestured to John’s still bandaged hand, but didn’t take his eyes off the wall. “You’ll stay with me until we’ve finished this.”

John knew when he was beat. 

***

Another uneventful week passed, and the pair were no closer to finding their man. John had forced Sherlock to compromise, he’d stay home from work until they caught Cassidy, and in return, Sherlock would take on an extra case. 

“You want me to chase down a drug dealer?” Sherlock scowled, looking over a pile of information John handed him.

“I thought it’d be a good change of pace,” John shrugged. “A kid’s mum, Mrs. Chilton, got in touch. Apparently this guy has been selling to kids at her son’s school.”

“Isn’t this the kind of thing the police can deal with?” Sherlock tossed the pages aside, reclining in his armchair. “Not even _they’re_ that incompetent’. 

“She said they won’t do anything since none of the kids are talking.”

“I’ll think about.”

John sank into his own chair, sighing heavily. “You did promise.” Sherlock didn’t say anything, instead his stare was locked on John’s hand. John had become all too familiar with that look. “I can get my stitches out tomorrow.” He smiled. “That means we have to leave the flat!”

“Hmm, not necessary, I can do it he-“

“No! No, Sherlock, you are _not_ removing my stitches!”

“Fine, I suppose we can pay a visit to Barts.”

John smiled. While he had enjoyed spending time with Sherlock over the past fortnight, cabin fever was starting to kick in. He was used to having the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted, but instead, his friend had insisted he accompany him everywhere, for fear that something bad could happen. The one thing that had changed the most, however, was the change in Sherlock’s demeanour. To anybody else, he would have seemed as indifferent as ever, but John had gotten used to a closer relationship with his flatmate, not only personally, but also intimately. That had changed as soon as he had returned home from the hospital, and Sherlock’s attachment to John changed from personal, to distant.

“Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

“You can always ask.”

John shifted awkwardly in his chair. “Why didn’t you come after me that night? I mean, you were sure something bad was going to happen, right?”

Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms defensively. “Of course I… well, I had an idea.”

“So, why didn’t you come after me?”

“I thought that you wouldn’t want that.”

John chuckled softly. “That’s never stopped you before.”

Sherlock shrugged and looked away, back to the wall. He had asked himself why he hadn’t gone after his friend every day since that night. He knew the answer, but it was not something he was willing to discuss, especially not with John. 

“Have you started respecting my wishes all of a sudden?”

“Something like that.” The detective smiled.

“That’s good… I suppose. I mean, you could have chosen a better time to start, but it’s something.”

“I tend to do what I think is best, but in your case I try to think of what you want, rather than what I think is right. The two often differ.” Sherlock tried keeping his voice steady, but the cracks gave away his anxiety. While he felt he was closer to John he was to the other people in his life, he was still hesitant to show any kind of weakness, especially given their current circumstances. 

John could read through the lines. While his deductive skills were nowhere near as advanced as Sherlock’s, he could still see the vulnerability in his friend’s face. He chose not to push it.

***

John woke suddenly in the middle of the night. He hadn’t had nightmares about the war for months, but as his eyes darted open, adjusting to the darkness, he knew something was wrong. Someone was in his room.

“Are you awake?”

The doctor rubbed his eyes and turned on his bedside lamp. “I am now, what are you doing?”

Sherlock sat on the end of John’s bed. He was wearing his pyjamas but clearly hadn’t been sleeping.

“I was thinking about what you said earlier, about respecting your wishes.”

“And it couldn’t wait until the morning?”

Sherlock ignored him. “I wasn’t entirely truthful. It’s more that, I’m not very good at showing that I care about people. Rather than doing something, I tend to _not_ do things.”

“So by not following me, you were showing you care?” John asked, puzzled.

“For Mycroft’s fifteenth birthday I didn’t get him anything, I just stopped breaking into his bedroom. For a little while, anyway.”

“That was nice of you.”

“Two weeks ago, I was conflicted between wanting to tell you that I do care and not wanting to interfere.”

John smiled. “You are completely mad, you know that?”

“I’ve certainly heard it before.”

“Nobody else would possibly have that train of thought, it-“

John was cut off by Sherlock moving up the bed and kissing him gently on the lips. While unexpected, it was exactly what the doctor had been craving for weeks. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” Sherlock whispered softly.

“It’s not your job to save me.” John ran his fingers through his friend’s curly hair, pulling his head back in closer to his own. He ran his tongue softly along Sherlock’s bottom lip, savouring the taste that, not long ago, had been so familiar. 

Sherlock shifted his body weight so that he was laying on top of John, careful not to crush the smaller man. John didn’t seem to mind, as he wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock’s slim torso, pulling him in as their lips met once more.

Running his hands up John’s warm chest, Sherlock slipped them under his shirt, making John shiver at the touch. He gently ran his fingernails down John’s body, resting on the top of his pyjama bottoms. 

“How long has it been?” 

“Too long,” John mumbled. “I’m just not very coordinated with my left hand.”

Sherlock smiled. “I had considered waiting until you were back to full strength, but it occurred to me that perhaps you didn’t want that.”

“God no.”

John wrapped his fingers around the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it over his head. His hands searched further, ready to dispose of the only other item of clothing his friend was wearing.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Sherlock growled gently in John’s ear. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I have a sore finger, nothing else, Sherlock. Trust me, I need this.”

Sherlock smirked to himself, allowing his flatmate to fumble with his pyjama pants as he latched his mouth onto his neck, running his tongue up John’s warm body. He lifted himself off the bed to finish removing his clothing before doing the same to John. It wasn’t as though their previous sexual encounters had been particularly intimate, but Sherlock relished in the closeness he was feeling in that moment with his friend. It wasn’t a feeling he too often experienced, and when he did, he knew to savour it. 

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s bare back, pulling him in closer. 

“I’ve missed this.” He mumbled as Sherlock’s teeth ran gently across his neck. 

Sherlock rolled over so he was laying on his side next to John. The dim light from the bedside lamp showed in full detail what effect he’d been having on his friend, and he had no intention of stopping. 

“What do you feel up to?”

John rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, I’m not made of glass.” He pushed Sherlock onto his back, straddling his hips. “It’s been two weeks, you know what I want.”

Sherlock smiled, running his hands up John’s thighs. He let his thumbs dip slightly, gently pressing up against John’s semi-hard cock. “Hmm, I don’t know, doctor. I’m not an easy man to please, that’s a lot of pressure.”

Grabbing Sherlock’s wrists and pinning them to his sides, John leant over his friend so their noses were almost touching. “I’ll have you _begging_ for more.” He whispered. 

John reached over to his bedside table, cursing to himself as he banged his hand on its side, in search of his lubricant. 

Coating his hands, John applied his left to Sherlock’s rapidly growing erection, awkwardly trying to be somewhat coordinated as he worked his fingers up and down the shaft. Despite his lack of expertise, even the slightest touch seemed to do the job. 

“For someone who was once _so_ vocal about not being attracted to me, you sure are eager for my cock.” Sherlock smirked.

John rolled his eyes. “I know, you were right, as always.” He leant forward, kissing his friend roughly on the lips. “Now shut up.”

For a change, Sherlock did as he was told, and relaxed his body just in time for John to start running his slick, sticky fingers over his arse. His eyes widened and his fingers curled into fists, but he kept his mouth shut. Even as he felt, one, two, three fingers enter him, he remained silent, gritting his teeth and staring at the ceiling. 

John gently pushed in further, as he felt Sherlock’s body tremble around him. He could see Sherlock trying so hard not to make any noise, clearly taking John’s off-handed comment seriously. That was ok, John thought to himself, he could have fun with that. The look on Sherlock’s face was that of pure ecstasy, clearly he had been craving this as much as John had.

“I think that’s enough, don’t you?” the doctor muttered.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. He sighed softly as John removed his fingers, the pleasure he’d just felt quickly draining out of him. He didn’t have to wait for long, however, for John to pick up where he’d just left off. In one swift motion, John pushed himself inside Sherlock, finally feeling the high he’d been craving. 

Supressing a moan, Sherlock bit down on his lip and scrunched his eyes closed. It didn’t take long for John to quicken his pace, his grip on Sherlock’s hips tightening with every thrust. 

“Oh God, yes.” John groaned softly, feeling the warmth of his friend’s body take him over. Sweat dripped from his brow, and the tightness around his cock, combined with the look of bewilderment painted across on Sherlock’s face was almost enough for John to come right then. “Hmm, you like that, don’t you?” John smirked, slowing his pace as he stared into Sherlock’s glazed green eyes. “I think maybe you’ve had enough for now.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “No, don’t stop!” he moaned, before quickly realising what he’d done.

John chuckled softly. “You’re too easy to crack.” He started forcing himself harder and deeper into his friend, relishing every suppressed noise, the heavy breathing that came with the rising of Sherlock’s warm, pale chest, the lust in his eyes.

Taking hold of Sherlock’s throbbing erection, John started to run his hand up and down in time with his thrusting. Much to his liking, Sherlock let out another soft moan, his back arching in pleasure. John sped up, running his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock. The detective moaned louder, his hands moving to grip John by his hips, pulling him in deeper. 

“Don’t stop,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. “I’m so close.”

No sooner had the words left his lips did Sherlock’s eyes widen, his fingernails dug lightly into John’s soft flesh, and he came all over his own stomach.

John kept up his pace, pushing himself harder and faster inside his friend, Sherlock’s trembling, sweaty body panting and coming down beneath him. Pulling on Sherlock’s hips once more, John felt his orgasm building inside of him seconds before it reached fruition. Despite the feeling being all too familiar, the pleasure was tenfold due to the length of time that had passed since he’d last had any release. 

“Oh God,” John moaned, the top of his body all but collapsing on top of Sherlock. “oh God, oh God…” He slowly pulled himself out of his friend, and rolled over on the bed to lie next to him. 

“Let’s make sure we never go two weeks without having sex again.”

John chuckled softly. “Agreed.” It then occurred to him that that was the first time either of them had made any mention of their sexual relationship carrying into the future. Each time had felt like a once off, but Sherlock’s comment made him think that that may not be what he wanted. Either way, he’d ask later. He turned his head to face Sherlock who was still staring, starry eyed, at the ceiling. “No matter how many times I see you like that, it still drives me wild.”

Sherlock smiled. “You do that to me.”

“Can I do it again?”

***

The next morning John woke to find himself alone in his bed. This didn’t surprise him, he was used to Sherlock wandering off. 

“John! We’ve got to go!” Sherlock burst through the door, fully dressed and in a flurry.

“What?” John sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Why?”

“Your appointment is in ten minutes, come on, we’ve got to go now or I’ll be the one removing your stitches.”

John jumped out of bed. “Ok, I’m coming!”

***

As with all doctor’s appointments, John’s was running late. The pair sat in the Saint Bartholomew’s waiting room for almost an hour after John’s appointed time.

“If I’d known it’d be this late I would have had a shower.” The doctor grumbled.

“Relax, you smell fine.”

“No I don’t I smell… unhygienic.”

Sherlock smiled and glanced around the room. He didn’t normally like being in a room full of sick people, but he felt a certain duty to John to be there.

“Oh, hi!” came a familiar voice from behind them. “What are you two doing here?”

“Getting my stitches out.” John told to Molly, still scowling. “If my bloody doctor ever comes out.”

“Well, you know how doctors are.” Molly smiled cheerfully. “I can do it if you like?”

“Would you?” Sherlock jumped up from his seat. “We’re really wasting valuable time here. I offered to remove the stitches myself but for some reason John didn’t seem to take to the idea.”

“Oh it’s no problem, come on!”

They followed Molly into a small doctor’s office. John sat on the bed while she slowly unbandaged his hand and inspected the stitches. “Big night then, John?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t look like you’ve slept, you look kind of… whimsical.” Molly blushed. 

“Oh, no um, nothing special.” John replied awkwardly. He heard Sherlock chuckle quietly in the corner. 

“Sherlock!? Sherlock!” a man’s voice could be heard shouting in the corridor. 

Sherlock ran out of the room to see Detective Inspector Lestrade pacing down the hallway, frantically looking into each of the offices. 

“Lestrade?”

The DI let out a sigh of relief. “We’ve got him. We’ve got your man, Cassidy.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a little chat

Sherlock sat restless in the police car as he and Lestrade headed for New Scotland Yard. He knew the DI was doing him a favour by including him. While he’d initially taken interest in the Cassidy case on referral from Mycroft, he wasn’t entitled to the same niceties as the police. 

“Now, I know how you’d like to get up in the face of this guy-“

Sherlock scoffed. “Please.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock, the last thing we need is this idiot’s lawyer claiming that the cops roughed him up. I know he hurt John, and I know you take that personally, but you cannot treat him any different to any other crook.” Lestrade warned. Deep down he knew his words would be going in one ear and out the other, but at least he had covered himself. “He wants to talk to you, and if it means we’ll be closer to locking him up and throwing away the key, then we’ll do what we can.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

Walking through the Yard corridors, Sherlock chose to ignore the stares from the officers as they followed him to the interrogation rooms. He’d never been especially popular with anybody, but police officers tended to take a particular disliking to him.

“So, Mr Cassidy, or is it Townsend? Any other names you go by?” Sherlock sat himself across from his prisoner, tapping his fingers furiously on the table. Adrenalin was pumping through him as he stared into the eyes of the one who’d got away. 

“Santa?”

“Oh, so you’re a comedian too? How nice.”

Cassidy smiled. “I’ll save you the trouble of asking questions, shall I?”

“If you want to share with me who you’re working for then please, go right ahead.”

“No, I’m going to save you time by telling you what I _won’t_ be telling you. It is of no consequence to you who I work for or their motivations. I will be more than happy to confess to my crimes. I stalked you, and your special little friend Doctor Watson. I kidnapped him, I attempted to relieve him of one of his fingers, but that didn’t go exactly to plan, now did it?” Cassidy rolled his eyes, and sank into his chair. “How hard can it be to remove _one_ little finger? I can’t believe I-“

“There’s more than enough evidence to convict you of all that without your confession. Why did you want to talk to me specifically?”

“Why does anybody do anything? For kicks, for the hell of it, to make sure you’re here and not somewhere else?”

Sherlock could feel the colour drain from his face. “John…”

Cassidy laughed. “No, nothing like that. We’ll take care of him later on, well not _me_ , but someone else. Just because you’ve got me, Sherlock, doesn’t mean your troubles are over. As special as I’d like to think I am, the truth is I’m very replaceable. We all are, even you.”

Sherlock leaned across the table, his eyes darting over his counterpart, searching for whatever it was he’d missed. “Why? Why him and not me? Surely I’m the one you want?”

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” Cassidy mumbled. “you really think nobody has noticed, don’t you? You think the world is convinced that you choose to live with another man because it’s _convenient_ and you enjoy running around the place saving kittens from trees and such? You’re not fooling anybody, least of all me. If I can read your relationship with Doctor Watson in one meeting, what do you think those closer to you have worked out? My boss told me about your ego, how you think you’re so far above everybody else. She told me how you make a point of alienating yourself because nobody could ever compliment the great Sherlock Holmes, am I right?”

“She?”

“Don’t change the subject. It took me mere seconds to read your relationship with your little friend, think what I managed to discover in the days, and weeks I was observing the two of you?”

“Well then the joke is on you, isn’t it?” Sherlock spat bitterly. “No matter what you, or anybody else thinks, John is my friend, and that’s all.”

Cassidy smirked. “He doesn’t see it that way.”

Sherlock was growing impatient. “I didn’t come here so you could spin me juvenile delusions about John Watson. You’re working for a woman, now _that’s_ interesting.”

“Women really aren’t your area of expertise now, are they?”

“Oh you’d be surprised. After a considerable case concerning Irene Adler, who I presume you’re no doubt familiar with, I think I know enough to go on.”

“I heard through the grapevine she took quite a liking to you.” Cassidy chuckled. “A gay man and a gay woman fawning over each other, what a world.”

Sherlock ignored the comment. “The woman you work for is older than you, a lot older, I imagine. You don’t strike me as the type to take orders from women in general, but this one is in a position of considerable power. She has something over you, something to make you do her bidding, you’re not a willing participant, that’s clear from your incredibly false confidence when you told me you were prepared to go to prison for what you did. You’re hoping you’ll get out of this somehow, that she’ll help you, but deep down you know she won’t, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh so this is the game we’re playing, is it? Well in that case, you are a narcissistic loner who is afraid of getting close to people, not because you’re worried about liking them, but because you’re afraid they might grow to like you. You have been nothing but a disappointment to those around you your whole life, your parents, your brother, your teachers, and now you won’t allow yourself any true friends because heaven forbid you disappoint them too. Even so, you never disappoint yourself, because you never see the errors in your own actions. If you’re alone, then there’s nobody to criticise you, and we all know how much narcissists like that.”

Sherlock laughed. “Now you’re wasting my time by telling me what I already know? Please, I’m not so delicate that I’m going to break down because mister criminal said some mean things about me. You’re right, I am a narcissist, but is it truly narcissism if you really _are_ better than everyone else?”

“I don’t know,” Cassidy shrugged. “what you should be more concerned with is, is it really paranoia if everyone really _is_ out to get you?”

***

Sherlock paced the living room muttering under his breath. “What did I miss, what did I miss…”

“I don’t know.” John frowned, pressing ‘stop’ on the tape recorder. “Sherlock, I’ve listened to this interrogation three times and I have no idea what I’m looking for.”

“It’s got to be in there! He made a mistake, he revealed he’s working for a woman, I need to work out what other mistakes he made.”

“Why not just let the police do that?” the doctor shrugged. “Mycroft wanted information on this guy, the police caught him and… wait, this is because the police got him, isn’t it? You wanted to be the one to catch him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not that juvenile.”

“Yes you are!” John laughed. “He was right about you.”

Sherlock frowned. “About me? How? No he wasn’t.”

“You’re a bit of a self-centred tawt sometimes.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And he was right about you not letting anybody getting too close.”

“Well that’s just common sense.”

“Is it?” John asked. “Because for most people, they need closeness, you know, companionship.”

“Yes well I’m not ‘most people’, am I?” Sherlock scowled. 

“No, no you’re not. Sometimes I wish you were though.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, Sherlock, yes I do. You know what else that bastard was right about, he was right about me.”

The detective stopped pacing and turned to look at his friend. “You?”

“For some crazy reason I thought I was more than just your friend. I should have known better, of course, but there was some lingering hope.”

Sherlock had been dreading this talk. He knew it was inevitable, and had gone to great lengths to let it go unspoken for as long as possible. “You’re right, you should have known better.”

“Yes, foolish me to think that my best friend, my flatmate, my colleague, with whom I have a sexual relationship, could _possibly_ consider me more than just a friend.” John scoffed, rolling his eyes as he stood up from his armchair. 

“We don’t have any kind of _relationship!_ What would make you think that?”

If he were having the conversation with anybody else, John would have laughed, but knowing Sherlock was entirely serious only made it worse. “Well, since it started I haven’t dated or slept with anybody else.” He said. “Have you?”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“About you seeing anybody else? No, but I’m serious about me.”

“Well… it’s hardly my problem you’ve been limiting yourself.” Sherlock shrugged. “I pointed out our mutual attraction, I initiated our intimacy, but I never so much as made a mention of any kind of relationship. I’m surprised you’d even want that.”

“Me too.” John admitted. It was something he’d given a great deal of thought to, especially in the weeks he’d spent joint at Sherlock’s hip. “But there it is, now you know.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that information, John? How would our lives be any different to how they are now if we were in a real ‘relationship’?” Sherlock asked. “We already spend all our time together, we live together, we have sex together, what more do you want?”

“Acknowledgement! I want some kind of acknowledgement that I mean something to you!” John cried. It was like arguing with somebody in a different language, there was too much that Sherlock didn’t seem to grasp to have a mature conversation with him. He breathed in deeply. “I want to know that what we have is more than just convenient for you, that it’s actually meaningful.”

“That’s all?”

“Yep, that’s all.”

Sherlock frowned. “John, you’re the most important person in my life. I’d die for you, though let’s hope it never comes to that.” He walked over to where his flatmate stood, arms crossed defensively. “I’m comfortable with how things are going now, I don’t know why we have to put a name to it.”

“It’s something I need, call it a weakness if you want, but I need to know what it is.”

“What do you propose?”

“Can I call you my boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Significant other?”

Sherlock cringed. “No.”

“Not to anybody else I mean, it’s not like I’m going to go around publicising anything!” John protested.

“Still no.”

John sighed. “If asked, can I say that I’m in a relationship, _with!_ ” he quickly added. “someone who will remain namelsss?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “That’s acceptable.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Hudson knows.”

“I took care of that.”

John frowned. “You what?”

“Not important,” Sherlock brushed him off, heading for the door. “come on, I’ve had an idea for what to do about our good friend Benjamin Cassidy.”

John knew the wicked smile painted across Sherlock’s face meant bad news, but he didn’t care. He’d got what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter 'cos I'm still away, I'll get back to writing novellas once I'm home next week :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New enemies, family, and experiments.

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t a new problem for him, but for a change it wasn’t a case that was keeping him up. He had spent the afternoon with Lestrade, going over the revelation he’d had regarding Cassidy.

_“Doreen Marsden.”_

_Lestrade looked up from his desk. “What?”_

_“Doreen Marsden.” Sherlock repeated. “Remember, 1999, she was the mastermind behind those hits in Cardiff.”_

_“I don’t follow, Sherlock. What about her?”_

_“That’s who he’s working for! He didn’t ‘let it slip’ that he was working for a woman, he told me on purpose. She wants us to know it’s her!”_

_The DI looked over to John, confused. “Are you in on this?”_

_John shook his head. “I know about as much as you do.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way to Lestrade’s computer. “July 2nd, 1999,” he said, his hands flickering across the keyboard. “two high ranking Cardiff police officers were found executed in their homes. They eventually found the culprits, who gave up the name of their employer.”_

_“Doreen Marsden?” John asked._

_“That’s right.” Sherlock pointed to the screen where the page he’d been looking for, Wales Online, had finally loaded. “She’s some kind of matriarch of a huge crime syndicate. Nobody knows where she is at any given time, what her long term goals are, who else works for her, where the money comes from... the only information we have on her is what gets given up by her stooges when they get caught.”_

_Lestrade frowned at the screen. “How often do they get caught?”_

_“Well that’s the thing, fairly often. They seem to be people with something to hide, like she gets them to work for her under veiled threats rather than their steadfast loyalty. All we really know about her is she has immeasurable wealth, unlimited access to information, and if our friendly Cardiff hitmen are anything to go by, these days she’d be in her mid to late 80s.”_

_“And you think she’s pulling the strings of our friend, Cassidy?”_

_“I’d say it’s a distinct possibility.” Sherlock said. “You won’t find her so don’t bother looking. See what you can get out of her latest muppet, but beyond that, I’d say you’re wasting your time.”_

_“Hang on,” John interrupted. “didn’t he say there’d be others, coming after us I mean?”_

_Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps. Don’t worry, John, there’s always somebody out there.”_

Despite his good intentions, John hadn’t been comforted by his words. Sherlock continued staring at the ceiling. He could hear his flatmate moving around upstairs, maybe he was having trouble sleeping too. For the first time in his life, Sherlock found the reason for his insomnia was something that actually made him happy. 

***

John sat in the kitchen nursing his cup of tea. Sherlock had been sitting in front of him for almost ten minutes in complete silence, looking down into his own mug. He was holding his mobile tightly in one hand, his other tapped incessantly on the table. 

“Ok, what is it?”

Sherlock snapped out of his hypnosis. “What’s what?”

“Why so quiet? You’re not usually this quiet unless you’re consumed by a case or something.” John frowned. “Did you get a new one this morning?”

“No, nothing like that. Something much worse.”

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

The detective looked up, his pale eyes wide and hollow. “We’re taking a day off.”

***

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous. I know you don’t like telling me things, and that’s ok, but we’ve been driving for ages, will you please tell me where we’re going?”

Sherlock remained silent, absent-mindedly looking out the window as the countryside rushed by.

John rolled his eyes. “Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes smiled dryly. “Just a little gathering, John. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m sorry, what? A gathering? A gathering of who?”

“Awful.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Don’t speak of mother like that, Sherlock.”

John’s eyes widened. “What? Mo... we’re going to a family get together? _Your_ family?”

The detective smiled. “Yes.”

“Why am I coming? No, I shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s your fault I missed her birthday, so you get to come along.”

“Besides,” Mycroft smirked. “from what I hear you’re practically family these days anyway, John.”

The doctor sighed heavily and slumped into the car seat. He was no match for the Holmes brothers. 

 

Half an hour later, Mycroft’s car pulled up through the biggest chrome gates John had ever seen. They opened onto a paved driveway which led up an impasse to a two-storey 19th century redbrick mansion. Vines ran carelessly around the windows, large pine tries scattered the grounds, and John couldn’t help but gaze in awe up at extravagance before him. He had long suspected Sherlock and Mycroft came from a well-to-do family, but he never imagined he’d find himself where he was.

“Seriously, Sherlock, why am I here?” the doctor whispered as the three men made their way towards the front door. “I shouldn’t be here this is... family stuff.”

“Why, John, did you have something better to do today?”

John scoffed. “I might have!”

“Look, it’s fine. I make sure I visit once a year, it keeps everybody happy. Today happens to be Uncle Rufus and Aunt Mildred’s 50th wedding anniversary. Something I wouldn’t usually be caught dead at, but the year is nearing its end and I need to make my annual appearance before the family so they don’t think Mycroft is merely imagining me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s not so bad, John.” Mycroft smiled, opening the door. “I think mother will quite like you.”

John swallowed hard as he followed Sherlock inside. The interior of the house was just as spectacular as the outside. They walked into a large dining room where a dozen middle aged men and women stood, sherry glasses in hand.

“Sherlock!” a man with a large, bushy moustache exclaimed. “Ah, the prodigal son returns!”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Uncle Boris.”

“So you haven’t forgotten us!” Uncle Boris chuckled. “You remember your Aunt Mary, then?”

“Yes, of course, hello Aunt Mary.”

John had never seen Sherlock look so uncomfortable. He was used to seeing the detective take charge of the room and assert himself as the smartest person in it. For the first time, however, he appeared completely powerless.

“Ah, mother.” Mycroft beamed, approaching a tall slender woman with a pointed nose and fierce eyes. “So lovely to see you.”

“You brought him then?”

The smile from Mycroft’s face quickly vanished. “Yes. Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed heavily and followed his brother’s voice. John, unsure what to do with himself, trailed along.

“Oh, my little boy.” Mrs. Holmes grabbed Sherlock firmly around the waist, hugging him tight. “It’s so nice to see you!”

“Yes, you too, mother.”

“And who’s this?”

John suddenly felt very naked. All eyes in the room were staring squarely at him, the imposter.

“This,” Sherlock placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “is Doctor John Watson. Colleague of mine. Actually, it’s his fault I missed your birthday, so-“

“Hang on! I got kidnapped!”

Mrs. Holmes laughed. “Never mind, dear. I’m used to these two skipping out on family dos. At least you’ve given him a good excuse, for a change.”

 

The remainder of the afternoon dragged on and only became more and more uncomfortable for John. He sat between Sherlock, and a man who’d been introduced to him as Uncle Peter, a large, red-faced fellow with a thick Scottish accent. While the doctor had grown accustomed to living with Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies, he was not used to dealing with a whole family of them. 

“So, John dear, is there anybody special in your life?” An elderly woman from across the table asked. “Or does our Sherlock take up all your time?”

John could see Mycroft suppress his amusement out of the corner of his eye.

“Um, well yes, to both of those, I suppose. That is to say that I am seeing somebody, sort of, but I’m still kept very busy with Sherlock... and my own work, of course.”

“We all read your blog,” Uncle Peter interjected. “I can’t imagine how you have time for any kind of social life with him dragging you all over the place!”

“You make it sound like I do it against his will.” Sherlock grumbled, playing with the peas on his plate. 

John smiled nervously. “We get b- I... I get by.” 

As the afternoon faded into evening John found that Sherlock was becoming more and more irritable. Clearly family get-togethers weren’t something he particularly enjoyed, but regardless, the doctor couldn’t help but feel he should probably ease up on the wine.

***

“What did I tell you, John, that wasn’t so bad.” Mycroft said as they drove back to London late that evening. Sherlock sat asleep in the back seat. 

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t the one being interrogated. I doubt Sherlock has ever had that much to drink in his life, and did you hear Uncle Bartholomew... or was it Barnaby? I don’t know, the guy with the thick glasses, he asked me if I might be interested in being set up with his granddaughter! And that was after-”

“Yes, I know.” Mycroft smiled. “John, he was messing with you, they all were.”

John frowned. “What? How?”

“You don’t think Sherlock just magically emerged into the world being how he is, do you? I suppose you could say our family is... different.”

“So did Sherlock tell you, about, you know?”

“Sherlock avoids talking to me at all if he can. He doesn’t _need_ to tell me things.”

“So you know.”

“I know.”

“And you told the family?”

Mycroft scoffed. “Please, can you imagine the backlash from Sherlock if I did such a thing? John, Sherlock is exceptional, but the rest of the family aren’t idiots. They could see right through you two.”

“Right.”

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s good, for both of you.”

***

Climbing the stairs to the flat, John found himself lost for words. He felt he should say something to Sherlock about their afternoon, but what? Thankfully, his flatmate spared him the trouble.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“What? No, it’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t like it if you inflicted your family upon me without warning, I shouldn’t have done it to you.” Sherlock hung his coat and scarf behind the door.

“I don’t really have family.”

The detective smiled ever so slightly. “I like to pretend I don’t.”

“Well, they’re ok, they-“

Sherlock placed his hands on John’s shoulders, looking down into the smaller man’s eyes kindly. “Let’s not talk about that.”

John gasped softly as he felt Sherlock’s lips run across his own. He opened his mouth enough to invite him in as he ran his hands down Sherlock’s thin hips. 

“How’s the hand?”

“You can’t keep asking me forever.”

“No,” Sherlock smiled. “I guess not.” He forced all of his weight onto John’s upper body, pushing him against the wall. He ran his tongue slowly along John’s bottom lip, pushing their bodies closer together, his hands running firmly down his flatmate’s chest.

John relaxed into Sherlock’s touch, allowing himself to become completely immersed in the warmth that was consuming his body. 

“Do you want to move somewhere else?” John mumbled, freeing himself from the lip-lock.

“You’re right, couch would be more comfortable.”

Sherlock took John by the hand and led him urgently to the couch, pushing him amongst the cushions.

“That’s not really what I had in-“

John found himself cut-off again. Sherlock was more eager than usual, and that wasn’t something he was about to pass up on. He sank deeper into the couch as his flatmate ran his fingers through his short blonde hair, forcing his tongue through the barrier of teeth, grinding his hips into his own.

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s middle, John fiddled with his shirt until he could tug it over his head before removing his own, disposing of both on the floor. 

“Someone’s keen.”

John smiled. “Well, I almost got set up with your second cousin today, I think you owe me.”

“Hmm, I suspected as much.” Sherlock reached under one of the couch cushions, pulling out a white bottle.

John’s eyes widened. “How long’s that been there?”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Since I got Mycroft’s text this morning. I knew I’d have to find a way to make it up to you for dragging you along.”

“You sneaky bastard.”

 

Minutes later the pair lay naked, side by side on the narrow couch. 

“So, since I ‘owe you’, any requests?”

John bit his bottom lip nervously. “There’s something we haven’t tried yet.”

Sherlock smiled. “There’s quite a lot, actually.”

“Yeah, well, something I’ve been thinking about. I want... I want to know what it’s like for you to, you know.”

“John, I’m your... something, I don’t know, apparently we have a ‘relationship’ remember? You can ask me for whatever you like.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock breathed in sharply, his trailing hands resting on John’s hips. “Really?”

“Yes, so much.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re sure?”

John gently gripped the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling him in close. He moved his spare hand down Sherlock’s body, resting on his growing erection. 

“You enjoy it.”

Sherlock’s breathing became heavier as he felt John slowly working his hand up and down his cock. 

“Yes, I do.” He groaned softly. 

Careful not to interrupt what John was doing, Sherlock reached once again for the bottle he’d stashed earlier. With his one spare hand he managed to squeeze out enough lubricant to coat his fingers. 

John shivered nervously as he felt the slick hand trail down his back. He tried to relax as he felt his friend’s long, slender fingers move closer to being inside of him.  
Seeing the slightest inkling of fear in John’s face, Sherlock pulled him in closer, wrapping his spare arm under his head. He kissed him gently on the lips as he slowly pushed one of his fingers deep inside John’s warm body.

The doctor’s eyes widened, it was a sensation he had never experienced before, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he liked it or not.

“Ok?”

John nodded silently, mentally bracing himself as Sherlock pulled out, and pushed back in. He kissed his friend back firmly, running his tongue along his teeth, gripping onto Sherlock’s slender hips. He gasped softly as he felt another finger enter him, and another. With each push, the pain lessened and the pleasure heightened until eventually John could see exactly what was so appealing about the experience. 

Sherlock gripped the back of John’s head firmly, forcing their lips together hard as he quickened his pace. 

“Oh god.” John moaned softly. 

“Turn around, back to me.” 

John awkwardly flipped over to his other side to face out on to the living room. Sherlock wrapped his right arm around his waist, his hand resting on John’s chest. 

Sherlock rubbed the remainder of the lubricant on his hand over his aching cock. Repositioning himself higher up the couch, he dipped his head to gently kiss John on the neck before slowly pushing himself into the smaller man’s hot, trembling body. 

John winced as he felt himself being forced open, but quickly adjusted to the intrusion. Sherlock was holding him against his body tight, thrusting his hips slowly. 

“More.”

Sherlock happily obliged, pulling John down onto himself faster. He could feel the pressure building up in side of him.

John moaned softly. He moved his hand up to Sherlock’s on his chest and redirected it to his groin.

Taking the hint, Sherlock took hold of John’s erection and started running his hand up and down the shaft, as close to in time with his thrusts as he could. It didn’t seem to matter, John responded to the slightest touch with deep groans and heavy breathing. He felt John’s body tense as it writhed beneath him.

"How is it that every part of you feel so good?" Sherlock groaned softly in John's ear. 

John could only manage a moan in response. Every noise he made caused a shiver to run up the detective's spine, like it was penetrating his body.

Eventually it became too much and Sherlock felt like he was going to explode. He came in short, sharp bursts once he could hold himself back no longer. His mind went blank as his orgasm took him and the pleasure swept over his body. 

He could feel that John was close. He continued stroking, faster than he had before. He worked his fingers under the head of John's cock, running them over the tip and down the shaft. Every slight touch caused the doctor's body to shudder and his breathing to strain. He came hard in Sherlock's hand, his back arched and muscles tensed.

They lay together on the couch catching their breath. John finally let his body relax. While in the past he had often thought about what it would be like to be intimate with his flatmate, he'd never thought of himself as being on the receiving end. Yet each time he and Sherlock had sex, he found himself wanting more, trying more. John knew that sex most certainly meant more to him than it did to Sherlock, but he couldn't help but wonder whether his friend felt a newfound closeness to him, just like he'd felt the first time they'd slept together.

Minutes flew by in silence and all of a sudden, John felt very exposed and wasn’t sure what he was expected to do next.

“I’ll um, get-“

“No you wont.” Sherlock interrupted. “Trust me, you don’t want to be moving around too much for a little while.” He gently kissed John on the back of the head and carefully got up and climbed over his limp body. “I’ll be right back.”

John watched his friend’s naked body disappear into the bathroom. He rolled over on to his back, wincing from the pain he now felt propelling through his body. 

Sherlock returned and handed a hand towel to John. “I told you.”

“I didn’t really think it through.”

Sherlock smiled kindly. “Was it worth it?”

“Oh god yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay again. I'm home now though so I should be back to updating regularly :) Thanks for the patience.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassidy is taken care of for now, Sherlock gets a blast from his past, and John is unsure about things.

John woke on up on the couch, a hot cup of tea inches from his face on the coffee table. He squinted as he adjusted to the morning light coming through the window.  
He could see a blurry outline of Sherlock sitting on the floor beside him, his own cup of tea in hand.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” John groaned. He tried sitting up but quickly retreated as the pain in his backside shot through him like an arrow. “Oh fuck.” He mumbled.

Sherlock smiled kindly. “That’s why I brought the tea to you. You may want to consider taking the day off work.”

John winced as he finally sat himself up. “Should I give them a call and say, what? ‘Sorry, can’t come in today, sex injury.’”

“Well, it’s not so much an injury as it is a side effect.”

“I can handle it.” John sipped his tea slowly. Truth be told, he hadn’t been thinking about the ‘side effect’, as Sherlock described it, the previous night. He’d wanted to try something new, and he certainly got what he asked for. 

“If you say so.”

“I’ve been shot, remember? I can handle it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t compare our intimacy to being wounded at war.” Sherlock replied coyly as he joined John on the couch. “How do you feel about it now? And I don’t mean the pain.” 

John looked up, surprised. Sherlock rarely asked about his feelings. “You asked me that last night.”

“Yes, but I feel it’s sometimes best to ask important questions twice, the second time being when your body isn’t being flooded by endorphins.”

“It’s fine.”

“Hardly a ringing endorsement.” The detective sulked, fiddling with his empty mug. 

“What do you want me to say? It’s good. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath that John couldn’t hear, but before he could ask him to repeat himself, the sleuth was headed for the door.

“Where are you going so early?”

“Lestrade wants me to take a look at something.”

John sat up, cringing as he momentarily forgot why he’d been slouching in the first place. “Is this to do with Cassidy?”

“No, no,” Sherlock dismissed as he wrapped himself up in his big coat. “all that has been passed on to Mycroft’s people. You know, they don’t have the burden of having to follow the same rules as the rest of us. They’ll look after him.” Sherlock smirked as he saw the all too familiar look of confusion work its way across John’s face. “When I say ‘look after’...”

“I’m still not entirely sure what it is Mycroft does, seems best not to ask.”

“Right you are. I’ll be back later, this shouldn’t take long.”

 

John sat alone on the couch. He had to be at work in half an hour, a feat he felt was far beyond his ability given his state. He felt like a teenager all over again, except the first time around he hadn’t felt the need to explore his sexuality. Now in his late 30s, he was experiencing all the trepidation and confusion that came with losing his virginity the first time around. Was it supposed to hurt this much? Was he doing it right? Was he any good? There was no doubt in John’s mind that he loved having sex with Sherlock but the previous night’s encounter had been the first time he’d been submissive, with anybody. Bracing himself to stand up, John shook the doubts from his mind and headed up stairs. He had all day to torture himself at work. 

***

It was rare for Lestrade to ask Sherlock to come into the Yard without telling him why. Usually the detective made sure he was up to speed but any excuse to get out of the flat was a good one.

“No John this morning?”

“He’s at work.”

“Alright,” Lestrade lead Sherlock into an evidence room with a table was covered in ziplock bags. “I’ve got a blast from your past here.”

Sherlock instantly recognised what was sitting in front of him. 

“I don’t-“

“Must have been one of your first cases, 1995?” The Detective Inspector asked, picking up one of the bags.

“I was 17 in 1995.” Sherlock explained, trying not to look too closely at the table. 

Lestrade chuckled. “So that’s why it was so hard to get information. This gear has the exact same composites as a batch we seized back in ’95. It was all sealed because it was a juvenile offender, but your name came up. I didn’t realise we had a juvenile detective too.”

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly. “Well, yes, that was a long time ago.”

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes fine. So, what do you want me for?”

“Well, you have a knack for remembering things. I know it was almost twenty years ago, but anything you remember about this? Last time it was just a possession charge, but this, this is huge.”

The consulting detective slowly approached the table, running his long fingers across the dozens of bags that lay before him. “Amateur.” He mumbled. “Where did you find this?”

“Busted a kid on a tip off, tried claiming personal use.” Lestrade laughed. “What 19 year old has two pounds of cocaine for personal use, divided up into tiny little zip lock bags? Bloody idiot. Obviously he’s just a dealer, but he’s not giving up the supplier.”

Sherlock bit his lip. It had been a long time since he last laid eyes on his drug of choice in such close proximity. His compulsive smoking habit had been keeping the urges at bay, but since giving up, the nagging whispers in the back of his head had been getting louder. 

“I don’t know a lot about suppliers” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t do drug cases, Lestrade, you know that.”

The DI shrugged. “It was worth a shot. I was hoping it might jog your memory.”

“Greg?” an unfamiliar face popped his head into the evidence room. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

“Sure. Well, thanks for coming down Sherlock, I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

As Sherlock was left alone in the room the air around him seemed to thicken. He could feel his hands shaking and his mouth water. He had to get out. Quickly checking to make sure nobody was around, he made his way swiftly to the exit.

***

John returned to the flat later than he’d hoped to find Sherlock sprawled out on the couch twiddling something between his fingers. 

“What’s that?”

“Cocaine.” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, not taking his eyes off the little bag.

“What? Why?” John marched to the couch and snatched the powder from Sherlock’s hands. “Why do you have cocaine?”

“I borrowed it from the Yard.”

John gaped down at his flatmate. “You _‘borrowed’_ it?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up. “Yes. Lestrade called me in to consult on a drugs case and on the way out I picked this up.”

“Are you completely insane? This is illegal!” John exclaimed. He had known Sherlock to be reckless and short-sighted in the past, but as far as he knew he’d never stolen anything that could get him in so much trouble.

“So is your hand gun.”

Frowning, John tucked the bag into his jacket pocket. “I’m returning this tomorrow. I don’t know how, but... it’s not staying here.” Turning to leave the room John paused by the kitchen door. “You weren’t going to... do anything with this, were you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I hadn’t decided yet.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock, tell me!” John was struggling to keep his voice level. 

“I don’t know, probably not.”

John was fuming. It took all of his self control to not walk across the room and punch his friend in the face. “Never again.” He said. “I never want to see anything like this in this flat again, understood?”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed. He and John had had their share of disagreements, particularly of late, but it was rare for his doctor to be so riled up. Smiling, Sherlock vacated his seat and joined John in the kitchen. “I’m sorry.”

"No you're not."

"I am a little bit."

John scoffed. “Only because you’re in trouble.” He spun around to face his taller lover. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s middle, his eyes racing over his face, seeing the anger seep away. “You didn’t like last night, did you?”

John blushed. Sherlock sure knew when the worst time to bring up sensitive topics was. “Well, I obviously enjoyed it.” 

“You’re not a submissive person though, is that it?”

John was used to Sherlock reading him, it had become a daily routine, but he continued to be amazed that he could pick up on even the little nuances of their sex life, something he thought would go right over the detective’s head. 

“No, not especially.” John bit his lip. His deductive skills were nowhere near as pronounced as Sherlock’s, but he could still see a glint of disappointment in his eyes. “Maybe we can save that for special occasions.”

Sherlock smiled cheekily. “Tonight isn’t a special occasion, is it?”

“Hang on, I was yelling at you a minute ago.”

“Yes, well you may not like being submissive but that’s not to say that others feel the same way.”

John’s eyes lit up as he felt familiar hands running down his back, pulling him in close. “Would it kill you for us to just have a nice quiet night in where we do nothing?” the doctor asked breathily. He hated how little control he had over himself once Sherlock got hold of him. He turned into a quivering mess every single time. 

“Maybe.” Sherlock smiled as he leant down to kiss John gently on the lips. 

John moaned softly, grasping Sherlock firmly around the neck and pulling him in harder. “No couch tonight.”

“No. Where do you want me?”

The question sent a shiver up the doctor’s spine. He loved knowing how much he could control Sherlock when he was gagging for it. “Your room. Go ahead, I’ll be in in a moment.” John released his flatmate and climbed the stairs to his own room. “Take your clothes off too!” he yelled from the landing. He got on his knees and started rummaging through the boxes under his bed. Being a good soldier he was always prepared, but not always as well organised as he knew he should be. Thankfully, he found what he was looking for.

 

Walking into the downstairs bedroom John was relieved to see Sherlock had followed his orders. He was sitting, naked, on the bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. 

“What did you get?”

John smiled and placed the rope on the floor. “Well, your talk of submission gave me an idea.” He explained, unbuttoning his shirt. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as they darted between John and the new addition. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been tied up.” He mumbled. “The last time I had clothes on.”

John had shed himself of his clothes and joined Sherlock on the bed. “Well I’ve never tied anybody up, but I do know a lot about knots.” He grinned, running the rope through his hands. “Are you game?”

“Yes, absolutely, yes.”

Straddling Sherlock was the easy part, but binding his hands was another matter entirely. John was determined not to look as clueless as he felt, but was wary of hurting his friend more than necessary.

As usual, Sherlock was two steps ahead. “Don’t worry about it hurting, I’m sure it will be fine.” He smiled. 

John lowered his body onto his friend, crushing their mouths together in an urgent embrace. He pushed Sherlock firmly into the mattress as he felt teeth running along his lips, and Sherlock’s tongue work its way inside of him. He managed to wrap the rope securely around his friend’s wrists, tying an end to the bedpost. John sat up to admire his handy work. Sherlock’s arms were raised high above his body, exposing him to whatever the doctor had in mind.

“I could get out of this in minutes.” 

“If you do, I’ll make you pay.” John smirked. “ _And_ ,” he quickly added, noticing the glint in the detective’s eye. “not in the way that you’d like.”

Sherlock smiled. “Do your worst.”

John slowly worked his way to the end of the bed, his nails trailing down Sherlock’s long, lean body. His tongue softly ran down his right thigh, deliberately avoiding any areas he knew would excite the sleuth too much.

Sherlock groaned in frustration as he tugged at his restraints and moved his legs in an attempt to give John better access. 

Taking the hint, John made his way back up to Sherlock’s groin, softly nipping at his hot, pale skin. He lingered at his semi-hard cock, gently grazing one hand over before returning it to his friend’s hips, digging his nails in deeply. He ran his tongue slowly up Sherlock’s erection, pausing at the tip before working his way back down. He repeated the same motion, over and over, each time agonisingly slow as the body beneath him shuddered.

“John,” Sherlock breathed heavily. “what are you doing?”

“You’re always in such a hurry.” John leant in again, circling his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock. He allowed his lips to sweep over the tip, applying just enough pressure to make his friend let out a soft moan. John opened his mouth wider, taking Sherlock’s entire length to the back of his throat. He didn’t quicken his pace, but continued to slowly suck, circling his tongue enthusiastically.

Sherlock dug his fingernails into his fists and squeezed his eyes shut as the rest of his body surrendered to the pleasure that was slowly consuming him. John was being slow, but was gradually adding more pressure to his cock, pushing Sherlock further to the point of no return. 

John moaned as Sherlock’s erection brushed against the roof of his mouth. The vibrations sent shockwaves through the detective’s body.

“So good.” Sherlock mumbled, tugging at his restraints but careful not to slip out of them. “Come on, you know what I want.”

John grinned as he sat up, pinning Sherlock’s legs under his own. “Yes, but I love how you taste.”

Sherlock groaned. “Later. Get on with it.”

John fumbled for the second drawer on the bedside table only to find what he was looking for sitting on the surface, already opened.

“Someone’s keen.” He said, smothering his hand with the lubricant. 

“I’ve already taken care of myself.” Sherlock mumbled, awkwardly repositioning himself, straining against the rope digging into his wrists. “I had to do _something_ while you were upstairs.”

John smiled as he rubbed his hand over his hard cock. “I never imagined you being so eager.” 

“And I never imagined you being so slow.” Sherlock grumbled in reply, his body writhing in anticipation. 

Repositioning himself between Sherlock’s legs, John pushed himself against his opening ever so slightly. Sherlock wasn’t lying, he really had readied himself. Sneaky bastard.

John held his breath as he pushed in past the ring of muscle. Breathing out heavily he took hold of Sherlock’s knees tightly and forced himself the rest of the way in. He looked down just in time to see Sherlock grit his teeth and shudder as he adjusted to the intrusion. 

John loved looking at the change in his lover whenever they had sex. He went from being so cocky and confident to a quivering mess of a man who would bend to his every whim. 

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes...” 

The heat between them raced up John’s torso as he gleaned in a thin veil of sweat. It always happened so suddenly. Each time John started with the intention of drawing sex out as long as he could, making Sherlock beg him for more, only to turn him down. But his body always got the best of him. Despite his best intentions,  
John was no match for the uncontrollable arousal he felt each and every time he felt Sherlock’s body press up against his own. 

John closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his rhythm, rather than Sherlock’s long, pale, hot body. His dark hair sticking to his forehead, the deep arousal in his eyes, his quivering chest, his straining erection... John’s imagination was too vivid for his own good. 

Sherlock longed to reach out and grab John by his hips, impaling himself deeper, harder on his cock. He wanted to feel as much of him as he could. John’s eyes were closed.

Sherlock carefully slipped his hands free. He admired his soldier’s attempt to spice things up, but he was rubbish at securing someone to a bed. Sherlock would have to teach him.

In one swift movement he reached out and gripped John firmly by the hips, taking the doctor by surprise. 

"What did I say about escaping?"

"Well, you'll have to punish me."

John bit down on his lip as he pushed himself harder inside his friend. He had grown to love Sherlock's sadomasochistic tendencies. No matter what, he always seemed to get what he wanted. 

Sherlock tightened his hold on John's hips, pulling him in deeper and more vigorously. As much as the pair's sexual appetites managed to be in sync, John was far more reserved than Sherlock was partial to.

“More, please, John, more.”

John quickened his pace. He’d lost any sense of rhythm long ago. He pulled on Sherlock’s legs, wrapping them around him. The detective’s moans were getting louder, each one making John shudder in delight. He closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock’s hands leave his hips, but it didn’t matter. He held on tighter, pushing harder, faster. 

Sherlock gripped himself with his right hand, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock. He could feel John was close too, he could now recognise the tell-tale signs. The laboured breathing, the thick sweat on his brow, the way he arched his back. 

John bit his lip for fear that he would make enough noise to wake up the whole street. Going against his instincts he came silently, but his head was screaming. “Oh god, oh god.” He mumbled, trembling as he tried to hang on to Sherlock as long as he could. He’d forgotten how to breathe. The air around him was thick and his head was a complete daze. All concept of time and place was gone and instead all he felt was a buzz consume his entire body. John allowed himself to open his eyes. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Sherlock lay beneath him with a similar look of ecstasy on his face, wide eyed and breathing heavily, his hand and stomach covered in the evidence of their deed. 

It took all of his remaining energy, but John managed to stagger his way off the bed and into the bathroom. He sat on the toilet to catch his breath. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he couldn’t help but laugh. That morning he’d been thinking about how he felt like a teenager again, well now he looked like one. A sordid, horny teenager. That, however, he was ok with. 

By the time John made it back to the bedroom Sherlock had already tidied himself up and was laying in bed under the blanket, rubbing his wrists. 

“I guess my knot tying skills aren’t as good as I thought.” John smiled, joining him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.” 

Sherlock had always preferred sleeping alone, even in the past when he’d had brief sexual encounters. He’d always made a point never to have any of them at his own flat, and to never stay the night when he’d called on others. He found himself, however, happy to have John rejoin him. While he didn’t feel the same compulsive need to put a special label on their relationship that the doctor did, it was comforting.

John leant against Sherlock’s shoulder as he slowly drifted asleep. It didn’t take long until his breathing slowed, his body relaxed, and he fell into a deep slumber. Sherlock smiled and gently kissed his forehead. He silently climbed out of bed and tip toed into the kitchen. He found the baking soda and examined it closely with his fingers. Yes, it was close enough. Rummaging through John’s jacket on the table he found what he was looking for. What the doctor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making choices, and things we're not proud of.

A week passed before John decided to ask Sherlock the questions that had been burning inside of him. He had returned the ‘borrowed’ cocaine to the Yard as soon as he’d had the chance, slipping it under the evidence room door. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a lot better than it being discovered hanging around Baker Street. 

As was the norm when he didn’t have a case on, Sherlock sat in his arm chair, wrapped in a dressing gown, reading. 

“Sherlock, why don’t you do drug cases?”

The sleuth didn’t look up. “Dull.” He muttered.

“Not necessarily. I’m sure you could make them interesting if you wanted to.”

“Well I _don’t_ want to.” 

John rolled his eyes and sank into his own chair. "Have you ever, I don't know..."

Sherlock's eyes peered over the top of his book. "Ever what?"

"Nothing, forget it."

"Go on, John. Ask what you want to ask."

The doctor sighed. "You said you weren't sure what you were going to do with it, last week I mean. Does that mean you've-"

"Once upon a time I had a problem." Sherlock said matter of factly. He snapped his book shut and clambered out of his chair. "It's _no longer_ a problem. Does that answer your question?"

"Sort of." John frowned. He'd had plenty of experience with drug addicts, both in his time as a medical student, and since his return from Afghanistan. Sherlock had never struck him as the type to use recreational drugs, but then again, he had all the hallmarks of an addictive personality. The more John thought about it, the more confused he became. Besides the one uncomfortable afternoon he'd spent with the Holmes family, he knew next to nothing about Sherlock's life prior to meeting him. There were probably countless things he didn't know, and possibly never would. The pains of caring about such a person were not new to John, but they never failed to leave him feeling like he was missing out. People in normal relationships shared their feelings, didn't they? They knew about each others' pasts, their plans for the future, their fears. Sherlock had allowed John to say he was in a relationship, but that didn't mean that Sherlock thought _he_ was, did it? John sighed, shaking the thoughts from his mind. They were the kind of thoughts that plagued him whenever he gave himself too much free time. 'Too much free time' wasn't a problem he'd have once he got to work.

***

Sherlock paced his bedroom impatiently. He wasn't waiting for anybody, he was waiting for himself to make up his mind. He'd kept his stolen zip lock bag hidden in the dust cover of his 1998 Encyclopaedia Britannica, somewhere he knew John would never dream of looking. It now sat on his bed, looking up at him in judgement. It had been over fifteen years since Sherlock had used any drug stronger than tobacco or alcohol. Since kicking his cocaine habit (not "addiction" as Mycroft called it, Sherlock was adamant he'd never been addicted to anything in his life) he'd taken up smoking, but after that having been taken away too, he was left with a gaping hole he hadn't felt since his teen years. He loathed the emptiness, almost as much as he loathed his body's desire to poison itself with such substances. And yet, Sherlock couldn't make himself forget the escapist sensation he'd felt every time he'd managed to get his hands on his favourite white powder. It was a weakness he truly despised. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took the book and shoved it back on the bookshelf beside his wardrobe. He needed fresh air. 

***

John sat slumped at his desk. His half hour lunch break was almost up and he hadn't eaten a thing. Truth be told, he hadn't eaten much all week, he hadn't slept much either. Sherlock's bad habits were rubbing off on him.

"Hello?" a soft voice called from the door. "Doctor Watson?"

John shot a glance up from his desk to see a woman he didn't recognise standing before him. "Hmm?"

She smiled kindly. "I'm Katie Richards, I just started today."

"You're the new doctor?"

"That's me. I thought I should introduce myself since I'm right next door."

John vaguely recalled hearing about someone new starting, they still hadn't replaced "Adam" after all, and they were short staffed even at the best of times. "Of course," he mumbled, snapping out of his daze long enough to extend a hand across his desk. "nice to meet you, Katie. Please, call me John."

Doctor Richards wasn't a particularly remarkable woman. She was tall and slim, with shoulder-length brown hair. She dressed plainly and John estimated she was in her early 30s. Just another doctor. She was terrible at making small talk, John thought to himself as Katie muttered something about moving into her new flat over the weekend. She had avoided making too much eye-contact since entering his office, she spent an inordinate amount of time looking at her shoes and fiddling with her skirt, not the best interpersonal skills for a doctor.

"I hear you didn't get along too well with my predecessor."

"Well it was fine until he kidnapped me and started to relieving me of parts of my body." John chuckled. "Occupational hazard I suppose."

Katie laughed nervously. "John, would you happen to be free tonight? It's just, I'm new to town, and I don't really know anybody, so I was-"

"No." John interrupted. Alarm bells went off in his head and for a moment he forgot how to breath. He scolded himself for the brashness of his reply before continuing. "I mean, no, sorry Katie, I'm busy tonight. Maybe another time."

After Katie had finally left his office John spent the remaining minutes of his lunch break staring at his computer. He didn't want to do it. He knew it was creepy, he knew it was paranoid, he knew it was exactly what Sherlock would do, and he just couldn't help himself. He clicked through to the search engine and typed 'Doctor Katie Richards'.

***

John arrived home in time to find Sherlock hunched over the kitchen sink clutching his face. As he got closer, he could see that the detective was holding a tissue up against his nose.

"What happened?"

Sherlock jumped. "Don't creep up on me like that! Isn't it obvious? I got hit in the nose." 

John frowned. "Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"Well it's pretty rare for one person to hit another for no reason, though I guess with you there could be a number of reasons."

Sherlock scowled, not appreciating John's attempt at humor. "I was mugged, sort of. Lucky for me I don't carry cash on me very often, unlucky for _them_ I know how to hit harder than they do."

The doctor leaned in to inspect Sherlock's face. There didn't seem to be any serious damage, the only trace of any kind of altercation having taken place being small amounts of blood resting above Sherlock's upper lip. The rest of his face was untouched, still as pale and flawless as it always was, John thought. 

"Was your day as eventful as mine?" Sherlock resumed his place over the sink as if he were expecting a sudden downpour of blood to rush from his face. 

"I think I'm becoming too paranoid. All this crime fighting is really interfering with my work life."

"Please, John, the 'crime fighting' as you so childishly put it is the _real_ work, we both know the Practice is a hobby."

"I'm serious, Sherlock! A new doctor started today, she was really nice, and the first thing I did when she left my office was look her up on Google!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Seems reasonable to me."

John laughed. "Of _course_ it seems reasonable to _you_! But I don't want to be the kind of person who expects the worst of people. As soon as she showed an interest in seeing me outside of work I went in to some sort of panic mode!"

"Well, that makes sense. You're an attractive man so I can see why she would want to spend time with you." Sherlock mused, leaning back on the kitchen sink. "On the other hand you had a very traumatic experience with a co-worker not long ago. I don't see why you're so surprised by what happened, it's perfectly understandable."

"Maybe I need to take a break from going to crime scenes with you, a long break I mean."

"But I need you." Sherlock frowned. 

"Well in that case maybe I can just help from here for a while, you know, behind the scenes."

"Do as you wish." Sherlock turned and left the kitchen. John knew he was trying to act like he didn't care, but not even the great Sherlock Holmes could fool him.

The detective curled up in his armchair, absent-mindedly flicking through emails on his laptop. There were a few messages from his website. Most were the usual drivel, but a couple could entertain him for a few days, Sherlock thought to himself. He typed out a response to a Mr. Tobias Burton regarding his request for a meeting. Something about his missing sister, a suspicious delivery, and a broken bike chain. If nothing else, Sherlock told himself, it'd keep his mind busy until something _really_ interesting cropped up.

John meandered around the kitchen, cautiously cleaning up the mess Sherlock had left behind after one of his experiments. Condiments sat next to dirty beakers on the table, various cutlery, used and unused was scattered on the bench. Goodness knows when Sherlock last sorted all of his chemistry equipment. Long ago John would have protested and kicked up a fuss, but after all the time that had passed he had grown to accept that cleaning the kitchen was his job, and probably always would be, regardless as to how little of the mess was actually _his_. Truth be told, he didn't mind too much, but he wouldn't let Sherlock know that.  
As he opened the pantry to put the Marmite away, John noticed something out of place.

"Sherlock, why is there _bicarbonate soda_ in the _pantry_?"

Sherlock made a non-committed noise from the lounge room in response, clearly not as interested in the discovery as his flatmate. 

John frowned and put the box back under the sink where it had lived since the pair moved in to 221B. He piled the cutlery and dirty plates into the sink, and as it filled, a thought hit him like a freight train.

"What did you do?"

Looking up from his computer Sherlock looked puzzled. "I don't know, what _did_ I do?"

"S-Sherlock," John muttered, moving into the living room. "I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I'm not an idiot."

"Really? Because you're not doing a good job explaining yourself."

"Your nose is bleeding, even though you have no bruising or any other marks on your face, and now the white powdery substance in our kitchen turns up somewhere it's never been before." John stated.

"Yes, I fail to see-"

"You swapped the cocaine, didn't you?"

Sherlock felt paralysed. "I-"

"Didn't you!" John hadn't meant to yell, he had told himself he'd been yelling too much recently, but something had come over him and he hadn't had time to stop it.

Sherlock stared back up at him, speechless. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, completely stunted with nowhere to run and nothing to say.

"Well, I just had to see for myself." came a voice from the door. Mycroft looked bemused as he walked over to the pair, his eyes transfixed on Sherlock's face.

"What do you want?" the detective sulked. He was relieved for the interruption, but was never especially pleased to see his older brother.

Mycroft smirked. "I heard through the grapevine that you had given a young hoon a black eye and just _had_ to see for myself what he did to deserve such a thing." The elder Holmes held out a tissue. "You've got blood on you."

"How'd _you_ find out?"

"Oh please, Sherlock. I'm the first to know whenever something happens to you, no matter how insignificant."

Sherlock reluctantly snatched the tissue and held it to his face. "He hit me first, not very well, but well enough that I can't stop bleeding." he scowled. 

"Outstanding." Mycroft muttered. "Well, I'm glad to see it's nothing crippling that will keep you out of action for long. Take a look at this when you have a chance," he held out a manila folder and placed it on the coffee table. "I think you'll find it most enlightening." 

John watched the exchange between the brothers in silence. Sherlock had the same look on his face as he always did when Mycroft paid them surprise visits, total disdain. 

They remained in silence for what felt like hours as Mycroft bid them farewell made his way back down the stairs. John felt like he could hear his own heart beating heavily in his chest, like he could feel sweat pouring from every part of his body, as he was consumed by guilt. 

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." he stammered once he heard the front door click shut. "I... I don't know what I was thinking, accusing you of-"

"It's fine, John. We all make mistakes. Think nothing of it."

"Are you sure? I really-"

Sherlock smiled."It's fine. Your deductive abilities are getting sharper."

John nodded and bit his lip nervously. He was used to being wrong around Sherlock, but being wrong _about_ him was something he thought he'd never get used to. Shuffling over to the coffee table, John looked down at the folder that now lay there. "So, what do you think it is?"

"Never mind that, it can wait." the detective stood up and placed his hands gently on John's shoulders. "Let's go out tonight, it's been a while."

Sherlock watched John climb the stairs to his room two at a time to fetch his coat. Once he was out of sight, he swiftly made his way to his own bedroom, grabbing his copy of the 1998 Encyclopaedia Britannica from the bookshelf and headed into the bathroom. Careful to lock the door behind him, Sherlock cautiously opened the dust cover and pulled out the little zip lock bag he'd tucked inside earlier that day. 

"For John." he muttered under his breath, as he dropped the bag into the toilet and watched it disappear for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies for the delay. My jet-setting ways of late have made it difficult to update properly. Back for good now so hopefully (fingers crossed) that means I can be a bit more consistent. Thanks to those who've stuck around (and for the comments, they're very encouraging) :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants John to return to crime scenes with him, until he gets a mysterious message only he understands.

In the weeks that followed, John couldn’t help but feel like he’d fallen into a disturbingly domestic routine. Each morning he’d get up, make tea, an hour later he’d make tea in anticipation of Sherlock finally emerging from his own bedroom, he’d get dressed, go to work at the Practice, come home, make dinner, they’d work on whatever case Sherlock had on, and afterwards they’d either have lustful, fervent sex, or collapse on the couch, covered in papers or photos, or whatever else Sherlock had gathered from his research. Inevitably, no matter where he ended up, John would wake up alone.   
He’d managed to stand his ground regarding not going to crime scenes. It had obviously annoyed Sherlock; for days he refused to tell John anything about the cases Lestrade took him out to, determined to remain the most stubborn man in London. But eventually he cracked. Sherlock loved an audience, and nobody was willing to shut up and listen to him like John was. 

There were downsides to not going to crime scenes, of course. For John, it meant he didn’t have a great deal to write about in his blogs. Sure he could give a general description of the cases they worked on, but it just wasn’t the same as his eye witness accounts of the decomposing bodies, the blood splatters, and Sherlock’s freakish ability to see through everything at a glance. It also meant the pair didn’t spend as much time together, something John was fine with initially, but as time went on, he realised how accustomed he’d grown to being by Sherlock’s side day in and day out. The impact of their separation, no matter that it was only during the daylight hours, was instantly visible in Sherlock. As a person who fell easily into routine, having his disrupted by the disappearance of his partner was not something he coped with well. John wondered if he would be the only one to notice, but then he got a text.

**Are you still living with Sherlock? He’s been a right pain in the arse. Where have you been?  
Greg.**

If other people were starting to notice, it must be bad. Other people usually noticed Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies and his general oddness, but John didn’t expect _them_ to notice his subtle behavioural changes. He shouldn't have been surprised. Even with their limited contact he had been able to tell Sherlock wasn't as enthralled in his work has he usually was. He almost seemed to resent having to go to crime scenes, something John thought he'd never see. 

"Sherlock? What's been going on with Lestrade?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead he grumbled something under his breath and continued glaring at his crime collage pinned up on the wall. 

"He says you've been a pain," John joined him in the living room. "more than usual, I imagine, if he's telling me about it."

"I can't think properly." 

"Oh, do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No." The detective snapped, turning to look at his friend. "I can't think properly at crime scenes. I've grown accustomed to you being there, and now that you're _not_ it's getting in the way of my work."

John frowned and rested on the arm of his chair. "We've talked about this, I just need some time away."

"No, _you_ talked about it. _I_ didn't have a choice!"

"A... are you angry with me? I don't think you've ever been _angry_ with me before!" John couldn't help but smile. 

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't like my work being interrupted, that's all. Can we just go back to how things were before?"

"It's only been a month, Sherlock, it's-"

"So what?" Sherlock threw the pen he'd been fiddling with at the wall. "That's enough time for you to return to normal or _whatever_ your reason for abandoning me was."

"You think I've abandoned you? We _live_ together! That's hardly-"

"It's not the same and you know it." Sherlock sighed, turning his entire body to face John. "Please? I'm not as good without you."

It was rare for Sherlock to beg John for anything, outside the bedroom at least. He'd always prided himself on being a stand-alone person, the kind of man who wasn't cursed with the burden of _needing_ anybody. But the longer the two lived together, the longer their "relationship" or whatever it was went on, the more Sherlock found that he felt incomplete without John at his side. Is that what it meant to be in a real relationship? To _need_ someone? The detective pushed the thought from his mind, the last thing he needed was to fall into the trap of being an ordinary man. No, he'd never be like that, he'd never put himself at the mercy of another. And yet, he just couldn't shake the feeling that consumed him each and every time John left for work, each time Sherlock found himself at a crime scene alone, every time Lestrade asked him "no John today?", he felt lonely. Not the kind of lonely he'd felt as a child. Not even the kind of lonely he'd felt as an adult before he moved into Baker Street. The kind of lonely he'd only recently become acquainted with. Not like he was missing someone, but like he was missing a part of himself.

“Please.”

John sighed and sunk into his chair. “I’ll see if I can cut down my days at the Practice tomorrow.”

“Good.” Sherlock nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.” he shifted uncomfortably on the couch, suddenly all too aware of how pushy he'd been. Damnit, he hadn't had a problem with _guilt_ until John came along. "Now," he snapped out of his daze. "stop sitting there doing nothing, and help me work out why Mrs. Winters tossed her husband in a vat of acid."

***

John work up, slumped in his armchair. The sun was shining through the living room window, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The usual, then. Reluctantly dragging himself into the kitchen, John suddenly noticed something by the door. All of Sherlock's mess, or "evidence" as the sleuth would call it, was restricted to the couch area, but by the door lay a solitary white envelope. John rubbed his eyes and opened it, only to find a plain white card inside, with what appeared to be some squiggly lines and a few scribbles. Thinking nothing of it, John shoved it in his pocket and put the kettle on.

***

Sherlock didn't arrive back at the flat until late evening, bustling inside and throwing his coat on the couch.

"Where have you been?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled.

"What did he want?"

"Oh I don't know." Sherlock answered dismissively.

"How can you not know, you've been gone all day!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the cup of tea John held out for him. "It's all a bit of a blur to be honest. How do you know I've been gone all day? Didn't you go to your _job_?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. And I know you've been out all day because I'm not completely daft. Maybe I'll become the world's second consulting detective?"

Scowling, Sherlock chose to ignore him and sipped his tea. 

"Oh! This was under our door this morning." John rummaged in his pocket, pulling out the envelope. "Under the upstairs door though, that's weird, maybe Mrs Hudson put it there. Mean anything to you?"

Sherlock examined the envelope carefully before removing the card inside. Nothing noteworthy. Cheap, probably from a generic office, impossible to tell where exactly it originated. The card, too, was nothing special. The message, however, was something else entirely. 

"Ha! I know this." the detective grinned, leaping up from the couch and heading for his laptop.

"Those squiggles mean something to you?"

"Oh, John, "those squiggles" are not just squiggles. Didn't you learn anything from our dealings with the bankers?"

John frowned and peered over his flatmate's shoulder. Sherlock was navigating to his website, searching the archives for goodness knew what. "It's a cipher?"

"No, it's not _a_ cipher, it's _my_ cipher! I designed it years ago and put it on the website." he prattled as his fingers flew across the keyboard. "It's fairly complicated, I thought nobody understood it at the time."

"So complicated that you can't read it yourself?"

"John, it's a cipher, not just a normal language. I couldn't possibly store that kind of information in my head, that's why I have the website."

"Of course it is." John sighed, defeated. _Of course_ Sherlock had invented his own cipher. That's exactly the kind of thing he would have done on a rainy afternoon.

Sherlock's eyes raced across the screen until he found the entry he'd made four years prior. It was true his cipher was complex, but it made sense, at least he thought so. He mentally cross-checked the message printed on the card with the linguistic algorithm beaming out at him on the screen. _'Brilliant,_ he thought to himself. _finally somebody_ gets _my cipher. And it only took four years. Criminals are getting slack._

"So, what does it say? Or has someone stumped the great Sherlock Holmes?" John teased. 

The detective's eyes dropped. No, he must have translated incorrectly. He went over it again. No, he'd been right the first time.

"Well?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, nothing, I was wrong."

John frowned as his friend pushed past him, tucking the card deep inside his jacket. "What do you mean, "wrong"? You're never wrong."

"Well I was this time!" Sherlock snapped. He pulled his coat on and reached for the door.

"Sherlock!" John put his hand on the handle, looking up into his flatmate's deep eyes. For the first time in a long time, he saw something he'd hoped he'd never have to see again. Fear. "What's wrong? What does it say?"

Sherlock was lost for words. John didn't need to know, it was better that he didn't.

"Come on, just yesterday you were saying we need to do more cases together, and now you're shutting me out."

"This is different! I have to go." Pushing past John, Sherlock swiftly made his way down the stairs, letting the front door slam behind him. 

***

Sherlock didn't know where he was going. He couldn't go home, John would ask too many questions, he couldn't go to Mycroft's, he'd want to 'help' and that would only make matters worse. No, this was something he’d need to deal with alone. He would do as the cipher instructed. Fulfill the terms and carry on. Nobody had to know what those terms were, least of all John. John absolutely could not know. He’d only worry, and the last thing Sherlock needed was for John to have something extra to worry about. He wouldn’t do that to his friend. The last time Sherlock had tried to protect John he hadn’t taken him seriously, and that had ended very badly. This time it would be easier if the doctor were none the wiser. 

***

John hadn’t slept. He’d tossed and turned in his bed, paced around his room, drank, four, or was it five, cups of tea... He was used to being alone at night, he was even used to Sherlock disappearing every now and then, but he was _not_ used to Sherlock freaking out. He’d seen it once before, when he’d realised who Cassidy was, but this was different. This time, John didn’t _know_ what was wrong, and for some reason, that scared him more. As he buttoned his shirt, reluctantly getting ready for work, he heard the front door click closed. 

The doctor finished dressing himself as he rushed down stairs, finding Sherlock standing in the kitchen. He clearly hadn’t slept either.

“John.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you look terrible.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “You don’t look great yourself.”

“Are you ok?” Even as he asked the question, John knew the answer. His friend looked terrible. He had dark rings under his eyes, he was pale, his hair was a mess. He looked as though he hadn't slept in a week, rather than merely one night. He looked nervous.

“John, whatever happens to me, or to you, I just want you to know that...” Sherlock bit his lip, unsure how to finish his sentence. He’d returned home because he didn’t know what else to do. He hadn’t had a plan of what to do or say once he got there.

Making his way across the room, John looked up at his friend. “Sherlock, you can tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock lied, forcing a smile. He placed his arms gently on John’s shoulders. “I spent a lot of time thinking last night. I just wanted you to know that I... care about you. Very, very much. You are absolutely my favourite person in the world, well, that I’ve met anyway. I consider myself very lucky to have you in my life, you’ve made me a... better person.”

John was trembling. Something must be wrong, Sherlock was never this sentimental. “Please, Sherlock, just-“

“It’s fine.” Sherlock kissed the top of the doctor’s head, wrapping his long arms around his neck and pulled him in close. “I just wanted you to know.”

John leant his head against Sherlock’s chest. It wasn’t fine, whatever “it” was. It had been a long while since Sherlock had been able to lie effectively to his flatmate, whether he realised it or not. Snaking his arms around Sherlock’s middle, John nodded. 

Sherlock had no qualms in lying to anybody, except to John, that he hated. He knew his friend could see through him, but he chose to ignore that knowledge. He needed to believe John was alright, for both their sakes. He needed John to know he’d always be protected, always be looked after, and always have somebody who loved him. He hadn’t figured out how to quite put that last part into words, but he would eventually.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Sherlock owns a pair of jeans.

Although he’d been warned that Sherlock could go days on end without speaking, John never thought it would ever actually happen. Three days had passed since the mystery envelope had turned up under their door and since then the most John had been able to get out of his partner was the occasional “hmm” in response to his questions. On day three, the doctor gave up trying to squeeze out any information, and instead resigned himself to watching Sherlock run in and out of the flat all day in a flurry, not uttering a word as to what he was up to. John comforted himself by choosing to believe that there must be a good reason he wasn’t allowed to know what was going on. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t block him out for no reason? And yet his mind was determined to replay their last conversation over and over. Sherlock often said things that left John confused, but he rarely spoke from the heart, and for some reason, that confused him more than anything. 

Day four of Sherlock’s silence was a cold, wet Thursday. John caught a brief glimpse of his back as he headed for the stairs.

“Hang on! What are you wearing?”

Sherlock mumbled a reply and reached for the door handle. 

“No, really?” John spun him around. Gone were his trademark scarf and coat, and instead Sherlock was wearing clothes he’d never seen before. “Since when have you owned _jeans_?”

“Since I bought them.”

“You’re wearing jeans, sneakers and a v-neck t-shirt! It’s so... not _you_!” John tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander across his flatmate. Sherlock was rather keen on disguises, but John had never seen him looking so casual. “Why do you have glasses?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time to discuss trivial topics such as my clothes, John. I have places to be and people to see, I need to go.”

John frowned. “At least take a jacket, you’ll freeze out there.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock unhooked his coat from the door and turned to leave. He’d hoped to sneak out of the flat before John woke up. He should have known the doctor would be waiting for him. John had been keeping a close eye on him recently, making it difficult for him to go about his work in secret. 

“Sherlock? You would tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “You have nothing to worry about, I’m taking care of it.”

***

John watched his friend leave from the window. In all the time he’d been living with Sherlock, he’d grown accustomed to the lies, being blown off and left out of the loop. He was used to being the sidekick, and he was well aware that when he was with Sherlock, he was never the smartest person in the room. The detective’s methods were still very much a mystery to John, but he had picked up enough to know when something was wrong. He’d also become rather good at spying, or “people watching”, as Sherlock preferred. As the sleuth reached the end of Baker Street, John grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

Sherlock’s long strides meant John had a lot of catching up to do, but thankfully he caught sight of his head in the groups of school children and business men. John wove his way through the crowd, desperately trying not to let the detective out of his line of vision. Sherlock was moving quickly, clearly he’d been telling the truth when he said he had “somewhere to be”. As the crowds disappeared onto busses and into buildings, John became acutely aware of how exposed he was. All it would take was for Sherlock to look over his shoulder to ruin everything. But he didn’t. 

John managed to follow him all morning to all manner of places without attracting attention. By midday, the doctor was no more aware of what his friend was up to than he had been when he’d got out of bed that morning. Sherlock had been making irregular stop offs in some strange places, he’d fiddled around with his phone a bit, but besides that, it was just as though he was going for a long stroll. John looked down at his watch as it ticked over to one o’clock. He’d wasted half of his day off for nothing. He sighed and looked back to the street, just in time to miss seeing Sherlock slip down Percival Lane. 

***

Sherlock ducked into the side street, hopeful that whoever had been following him no longer was. He already had lost time to make-up, and if there was one thing the people he was dealing with would not tolerate, it was lateness. 

“What took you so long?”

Scowling, Sherlock pulled a piece of paper from his coat. “I had a problem to take care of. Here,” he handed the paper over, quickly shoving his hands back in his pockets. “this is the last of it.”

A tall man emerged from the lane, his eyes darting over the information Sherlock had handed him. “Are you sure?

“You had a question, and I’m providing an answer. If you do not like the answer, that’s not my problem.”

“It’s your problem if it’s wrong. That’s a big problem for you and your little boyfriend.”

Sherlock frowned, pulling his coat tighter around himself. “This has nothing to do with John. He is never to know about this, and if you should ever lay a hand on-“

“Relax!” the man laughed. “Provided this all checks out, you two have nothing to fear.”

Not used to not having the upper hand, Sherlock fidgeted nervously. He had upheld his end of the bargain, and now he had to hope that the rats he’d been associating with upheld theirs too. Sherlock didn’t hold out much faith for the criminals of the world, but he had no choice but to believe that these particular criminals, would stay true to their word. 

“Run along,” the man grumbled, looking Sherlock up and down, curious as to why he was still hanging around. “we’ll be in touch.”

“No, this is the last of it. We no longer have anything to speak about.”

“Mister Holmes, you’re not really in any position to be making that kind of assertion, now are you?”

***

Sherlock walked back to Baker Street slowly, fiddling with the frames of his fake glasses. As disguises went, his was weak at best, but he’d had to throw something together at the last minute. Thanks to John’s blog he was now fairly well known about town and the last thing he needed was for someone to spot him hanging out with undesirables. Still, he’d done it now. He’d done his part and he could stop sneaking about. Regardless as to what John thought, Sherlock hated lying to him. He knew he hadn’t been the best partner or boyfriend or whatever he was, he’d have to change that. After the drop-off, he had spent the remainder of the day wandering around town, something he hadn't done in a while, to clear his head. Most of the time, Sherlock found that talking to somebody helped him think, but there was nobody he could talk to about John.

“You’re back early.”

Snapping out of his daze, Sherlock looked to the window. John sat with his laptop on his knees, smiling at him kindly. 

‘ _It was worth it_ ’, Sherlock thought to himself, walking across the room and gently kissing his friend on the top of his head. ‘ _it was worth it for John, and I’d do it again_.’

“You’re back early _and_ you’re in a good mood,” the doctor chuckled. “are you ill? Has someone been murdered?”

“Always assuming the worst.” Sherlock collapsed into his armchair. “I got you something.” He gestured to a bag sitting by John’s feet. “It seemed appropriate.”

John looked down and, sure enough, a bag sat at his feet. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock put it there. “You got me something. _You_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why can’t I do normal things without raising suspicion?”

Smiling to himself, John pulled a book out of the bag. “’ _1001 Fun Disguises For Kids_ ’” He read aloud. “Y... you knew?”

“I figured it out.”

John suddenly felt gutted with embarrassment. Of course he couldn't have fooled Sherlock. He never could. “Are you mad?”

“I got you a book, didn’t I?”

John grinned as he flipped through the pages. “You never cease to amaze me, you know that.”

Sherlock shrugged, apparently under the assumption that he was constantly amazing people. "It's been taken care of, John."

"What has?"

"You know what. That cypher in the envelope. I've dealt with it."

"That's good."

The detective frowned and glanced over his shoulder. He was used to John prodding and prying him for information. "That's it?"

"I've decided I need to trust you more." John set his laptop aside and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, nuzzling into it from behind. "Even though your methods are somewhat _questionable_ , you always end up doing the right thing. I trust you, absolutely."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip as he tangled his long fingers through John's. "I hope so." he muttered. 

After a wasted morning of following his flatmate around town for no reason, John had realised he was bordering on being a stalker. Was it even _possible_ to stalk one's own flatmate? One's own boyfriend? He wasn't sure, but he was acutely aware of how paranoid he'd become. Taking some time off from going to crime scenes had done him good, he just had to keep his head screwed on right, and that meant not sticking his nose in Sherlock's business. The sleuth had managed fine before John had come along, or so he assumed, so surely he was still doing fine. 

"What do you want to do tonight?" John asked, gently kissing the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear.

"Something _you_ want to do." Sherlock replied as he held onto John's hands even tighter. "Something couples do."

John released his hands from Sherlock's grasp and turned his chair to face him. "You what?"

"It's important to you, so it's important to me."

The doctor couldn't help but smile. "You want to, what, go out on a _date_? Like a _normal_ couple?"

"It's what you want."

"Don't be ridiculous. If that's what I wanted, do you think I'd have stuck around so long?"

"Perhaps."

"No, I wouldn't. I _thought_ I wanted something normal, something boring, and easy. But I don't, not if it means I can't have you." John pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock's, his hands drifting into his curls and gripping tightly. 

Sherlock thought he'd never get used to the sensation of John kissing him. The warmth that swept over his body, the softness of his lips, his smell, the way his fingernails felt digging into his scalp. All the little details that made up John, flooding through him all at once. It was a completely overwhelming feeling, something he hadn't experienced before John had come into his life. 

"We don't have to go anywhere." the doctor mumbled, planting delicate kisses across Sherlock's face. "There are _other_ things couples do that don't require going out."

"That's a good idea. Sometimes I forget your not the smart one in our relationship."

John frowned and playfully pushed Sherlock deeper into his chair. "You'll regret that."

"I certainly hope so."

"Come on," John stood up and held his arms out to his flatmate. " _couple_ time."

"You go in," Sherlock gestured to his bedroom. "I'll just be a moment."

Waiting until he was sure John was well inside his bedroom, Sherlock was yanked out of his daydream and back into reality. Of course he couldn't just have a normal, nice evening in with the man he loved. He couldn't just enjoy his company, devour every inch of his body, and be happy like regular people. No, reality always had to interfere. He quietly made his way across the room and retrieved the fresh envelope that sat by the door. Whoever had delivered it would probably be half way back down Baker Street by now. Sherlock pulled the card out and stared at it. He didn't have to consult his blog, he knew exactly what it said. 'Wrong'. Shoving it under a pile of books on the table, the sleuth decided it could wait. He had more important things to attend to.

.  
.  
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(it's not letting me add a chapter note so I'll put this here. short chapter 'cos I've almost finished the next one (smut ahoy!) but i felt mean leaving it any longer)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is in the air.

John was all over him, his mouth working wonders on his soft, sensitive skin. His warm hands tugging at clothes and eagerly working their way all over Sherlock's body until he found himself naked on his back. It was a position the detective was becoming more accustomed to, especially since John had taken quickly to being the usual instigator in their sexual deviance. The bedroom was one place Sherlock did not mind relinquishing control, but every so often his lover caught him off guard, especially when his regular, mild demeanour changed so suddenly to one of lust and hunger. 

"Do you have another engagement tonight?"

John smiled wickedly. "You're more than enough excitement for one night," he mused, dropping his head to meet his friend's chest . "I just want to make the most of your attention while I still have it." 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned, trying not to shiver as he felt John's wet tongue make its way across his nipples, over his shoulder, and rest gently on his neck, enthusiastically joining John's lips in sucking every last aching moan from inside of him. While he could hardly deny the all encompassing pleasure he felt each and every time he found himself in such situations, Sherlock wouldn't give John the satisfaction of a strong auditory response. No, that he'd have to work for. 

The doctor had no such qualms, his breathy groans and sharp gasps more than enough to give away the effect his younger partner had on him. "Shut up." he grumbled softly. "Let me just enjoy you." 

Sherlock tried to relax. He let his mind wander, and drifted into a numb state where he could feel all the wonderful things John was doing to him, but his over-active brain wasn't invited. His breathing sped up as the doctor's teeth ran over his sensitive neck, and the growing bulge in John's pants rubbed up against his thigh. "A few months ago you thought I was mad to suggest you might be sexually attracted to me." he smiled, biting back another moan. 

"Yes, we've well established that you're always right, now I told you to shut up."

John detached himself from Sherlock's neck and latched onto his lips, forcing his head deep into the pillow beneath them. He shivered as long, soft hands worked their way down his back, gripping his hips firmly. 

The tips of Sherlock’s fingers slipped under the hem of John’s pants, pulling playfully at the elastic. He pushed his hands further down his friend’s behind, removing the final barrier between them. 

John let out a breathy moan as their bodies made full contact. Every part of him wanted to touch and be touched, he wasn't sure where to begin. Thankfully, Sherlock knew exactly what to do. Their mouths met once again, clashing violently in a cluster of lips and tongue. Sherlock freed one of his hands and slowly caressed his way down John's chest, his stomach and his hips. The ends of his fingers gently brushed against the tip of his partner's erection.

The doctor bit down on Sherlock's lip, desperately trying to suppress all the noises his body was dying to let out. "Oh god..."

Sherlock smiled, wrapping his long digits around John's shaft as he pushed harder into their kiss. He'd learnt very quickly the best ways to get his friend riled up. 

"Very good, John..." Sherlock groaned softly. "Mmm, yes, very good..."

Somehow between the kissing, the touching, and Sherlock mercilessly jerking him off, John managed to grab what he needed from the dresser. 

"Jesus, Sherlock," he said breathily. "if you're not careful there wont be anything left for you."

Sherlock chuckled softly, releasing his lover from his grasp. "We wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

Throwing the white bottle off the bed, John straddled his lover, wrapping his long legs around his hips. "You have no idea how intoxicating you are, do you?" he leaned in to gently plant a kiss on Sherlock's pale lips, using the opportunity to carefully push his way inside the younger man.

Even though he was more than used to the sensation at that point, the sleuth still held his breath until he could feel all of John inside of him. "More."

Only too happy to oblige, John slowly withdrew, and forced his way back in to Sherlock's hot, slim body. "There'll always be more." 

***

The only time of his day John enjoyed more than shagging his best friend, was laying with him in the afterglow. It was a rare time when Sherlock was completely open to him, physically and emotionally. Even at times when any regular person would offer physical comfort, the thought just didn't occur to the sleuth, however in the time that proceeded sex, he was more than happy to allow John to cuddle him any which-way he pleased.  
It also gave John a chance to talk to Sherlock without the fear of being rebutted or ignored. For some reason, an orgasm was the gateway to getting Sherlock to open up, something John didn't mind in the least. 

"Would you tell me if something was wrong?" 

Sherlock looked down at his partner who'd nuzzled snuggly into his shoulder. "Like what?"

John shrugged. "Anything, with you, with us, with a case."

"What would be wrong with us?"

"I just want to know if you'd tell me if you needed help, that's all. You scared me yesterday."

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around the doctor's waist, resting his chin on his head. "I do what I need to do, John. All you need to know is that I'll do everything I can to keep you from harm."

"You make it sound like I'm some sort of damsel in distress." John smiled. "I can look after myself, Sherlock."

"Yes," the sleuth bit his lip nervously. The burden of knowing what he did was growing heavier by the day. Knowing that _they_ had seen through his plan to fool them so easily left him deflated and vulnerable. It wasn't meant to be this way. "well, just the same."

The pair remained silent for what felt like hours, drifting gently between the comfort of sleep and the realities of being awake. John had his arm draped around Sherlock's neck, his face pressed up against his warm chest. Despite everything, he felt comforted by the fact that his friend felt the need to protect him. He told himself that must include withholding information, because what was the alternative? Sherlock was so unlike himself in every conceivable way, and so unlike anybody he'd ever encountered, but that was what made him so wonderful. 

"I love you, you know." he mumbled softly.

Sherlock didn't stir. "I know." 

John breathed out slowly. There he'd said it. Not exactly how he'd planned, but it was out there and there was no taking it back.

"You're the only one."

"What?"

"You're the only person who's ever loved me, that's how I know it's real, it's not something I've experienced before."

"Don't be daft," John scoffed. "I'm sure plenty of people have loved you. Hell, even Mycroft loves you in a really strange kind of way."

Sherlock shook his head. "I mean _real_ love. Family is... an obligation. You're the only one who's loved me by choice."

John propped himself up on his side, looking his friend in his deep green eyes. "It's _not_ a choice, Sherlock. Don't you think if it was I would have taken an easier route?"

"True." the sleuth smirked. 

The unspoken question hung in the air. John hadn't expected fireworks and a declaration of undying love, but he hadn't expected nothing.

"So, uh, how do you feel about that?"

"Are you asking if I love you too?"

"In a manner of speaking."

_'Yes.'_ Sherlock thought to himself. _'A thousand times yes.'_ The potential consequences of making such a statement bombarded him, reminding him of why he'd held back saying such things in the first place.

"I don't know."

Of all the things John thought Sherlock might have said, 'I don't know' had never occurred to him.

"How can you not know?"

Sherlock sighed softly. "I've never been in love, I've got nothing to compare it to." he could see his friend's heart breaking, metaphorically of course. His eyes dropped, his breathing slowed, his grip on the detective's waist loosened. "I care about you, very deeply. I don't desire anybody else, sexually or emotionally. I didn't completely realise I desired those things at all until I met you. You're the only person I want, is that enough?"

John smiled. "It's ok. I know you love me, even if you don't."

Pulling his lover in closer, Sherlock silently breathed a sigh of relief. He kissed the top of John's head and comfortingly ran his hands up his back, soothing him to sleep. It was enough that John knew. He'd tell him one day, when the time was right, when it was safe. This was not that time.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two birds, one stone.

It wasn’t often Sherlock found himself so exhilarated by his own mistakes. It was rare enough that he admitted to making them, but in this instance, it was a god-send.

“Mycroft, I need to know the exact whereabouts of Benjamin Cassidey.” Sherlock grumbled into his phone, hurriedly getting dressed.

“Of course I know what time it is,” he hissed, trying not to wake John who was still snuggled amongst his bed sheets. “that’s irrelevant. I need to know now.”

Mycroft was being difficult, as usual. Sherlock knew his brother wouldn’t take kindly to being woken at four in the morning, but some things couldn’t wait. He sighed heavily.  
“Would I be asking if it wasn’t important?” He clumsily pulled his trousers on with one hand, almost falling into the dresser. “I need to know, it’s important to something else. No I don’t want your help!”

Sherlock was on the verge of hanging up when Mycroft finally agreed to tell him what he wanted. “Thank you. That’s all.”

Hanging up and wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck, Sherlock took one last glance down at his bed. John hadn’t stirred. His soft face and warm, naked body made it difficult to leave, but some things just couldn’t wait.

***

As Sherlock had suspected, Mycroft’s people had detained Cassidy well outside of London. He himself wasn’t particularly threatening, except perhaps to Sherlock and John, but the information his mind held was invaluable and were it to fall into the wrong hands, it could be disastrous.

The first train out of London didn’t leave until five o’clock. _’Perfect’_ Sherlock thought to himself. _’that’ll give them time to catch up.’_

***

John was woken by his mobile phone ringing. Groaning, he reached for it on the bedside table. Sherlock wasn’t around, of course, maybe it was him.

“Hullo?”

_”John, do you know what Sherlock is up to?”_

The doctor sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I rarely do. Why, what’s he done now?”

_”He mentioned a case he’s working on, something to do with your good friend Mister Cassidy. Sound familiar?"_

“He _what?_ Where is he?”

Mycroft sighed. _“He’s gone to see him in prison, well, our own personal lock up, that is. Ordinarily I wouldn’t entertain his wild goose chase, but given the special circumstances, I thought it couldn’t hurt.”_

As intelligent as the Holmses were, John was amazed by how often their idiocy took him by surprised. “You thought that was a good idea? Jesus, Mycroft, are you mad?”

_“As well as you know my brother, Doctor Watson, I know him better. He would have found out with or without my help, at least this way I know he’s coming so the relevant authorities can be informed. The last thing we need his to have Sherlock breaking into a top secret government prison.”_

John rolled his eyes. _’Top secret government prison’_... of course it was. “I anything happens to him, Mycroft-“

_“You’ll what?”_ Mycroft laughed. _“Believe me, John, I want what’s best for Sherlock too, whether you believe that or not is not my problem. Over the years I have learned to trust his judgement. I may not always agree with his methods, he certainly does not always agree with mine, but like it or not, he is right most of the time.”_

John was half dressed before he sat back down. What was he doing? Did he really think he could help with whatever was going on? How daft. “So what do we do?”

_“We wait. If Sherlock needs help, he’ll ask for it.”_

Hanging up, John collapsed back onto the bed. Mycroft was right. He held his phone over him, carefully navigating back into his contacts.

***

_Bing!_

Sherlock scrounged around in his pocket for his phone. He was only minutes from his destination, John would probably be up by now.

**Do you need anything?  
J**

The train came to a stop and Sherlock gathered his things. He smiled as he glanced down at the text.

**Everything is under control.  
** **I’ll let you know.  
SH**

The town Sherlock found himself in was dreary and wet, just as he’d expected. It was dull enough to ensure that nobody would come snooping around for something quite as interesting as a secret government prison.

“Mister Holmes?”

“Ah, and you must be-“

“Crawford, sir. Your brother sent me to fetch you.” The man was unremarkable in almost every way. He had a broad monotone voice, his clothing looked as though it had been bought in the 60s, and his hair apparently hadn't been brushed for a week. Not the type of person Mycroft usually sent.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course he did,” he muttered, following the man out of the station. “I don’t suppose he told you to drive me straight back to London, did he?”

Crawford smirked. “No, sir. He asked me to fetch you and take you directly to our facility. You’re to be granted complete access for this afternoon.”

Genuinely surprised, Sherlock was cautiously optimistic. It was rare his brother gave him complete access to anything, let alone a secret government facility. Either it was an elaborate ruse, or for once Mycroft was proving to actually be useful.

The outside of the station was as dull as the inside. The grey skyline hardly changed at all as Sherlock’s driver took them further into the countryside. After several uneventful minutes, the detective could finally see signs of a building in the distance. Nothing too big so as to attract attention, just Mycroft’s style. As they pulled up to the entrance, Sherlock pulled out his phone once more.

**I don’t want you to worry.  
I know what I’m doing.**

He paused a moment, thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button.

**SH xx**

Yes, John would like that.

“Mister Holmes, we need to get moving.”

Unlike Baskerville, this particular facility couldn’t have been more unassuming. From the outside it was merely an off-white, rectangular building, strategically positioned between two hills. The barbed wire fence sent the message to keep out, but the lack of armed guards suggested the facility wasn’t worth breaking into in the first place.  

“How many people do you keep here?”

Crawford smiled. “Just the worst of the worst, sir. At the moment we have two guests, Mister Cassidy, and one Jacob Thredson. I’m not privy to their crimes, but no doubt they did something awful to end up in here.”

“Or they know of something awful.” Sherlock muttered to himself.

The pair walked through door after door down the central corridor which ran through the building. Unmarked rooms passed them on either side. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, the complete lack of stimuli was certainly intentional, but it made Sherlock uneasy.

Finally, they came to the end of the hall, Crawford stopping outside the last door on the right.

“They’ve got him in here for you, Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced at the door. It was no different to any of the other dozen they’d passed, but somehow it felt sinister to him.

“Thank you, Crawford. I trust you’ll wait out here?”

“Do not worry, there’s always somebody nearby, always somebody watching.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. The room contained very little; two seats, a small table, and a flickering light. _’Classic Mycroft.’_ Sherlock thought to himself.

“So,” he mumbled, taking a seat and folding his hands in his lap. “we meet again.”

“I knew we would.” A voice from the corner of the room answered. The detective could see a vague outline of a man dressed in white, his face turned to the wall.

“So did I. Now,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the other chair. “would you like to take a seat?”

“I’m sedated, you know. It doesn’t matter if I’m standing or sitting, they made sure I was completely useless.”

“How kind of them.”

Cassidy turned to face him. His dark, sunken eyes looking deep into Sherlock’s own. “They’ve stripped me of everything.”

“Yes, you have looked better, haven’t you.”

Scowling, the prisoner slowly shuffled from the wall. “Easy for you, isn’t it, pretty boy? Look at you with your fancy clothes and your fancy life and your fancy brother.” Cassidy clumsily collapsed into the chair, dragging it noisily across the concrete floor. “So, what can I do for the great Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock dug into his pocket and pulled out the notes he’d brought with him. “I’m here about these.” The ciphers lay out on the table

Cassidy raised his eyebrows, carefully scanning the pieces of paper. “I see you’ve crossed paths with some interesting people.”

“I know you can’t read these, but you know where they came from, don’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m giving you to them.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “You have a lot in common. You’re both terrible human beings who have a fixation on John Watson, or rather a penchant for using him to get to me. Very clever of you both, using him, no very original though.”

Cassidy smirked. “Why mess with a classic? You always go for the broad, or in this case, the boyfriend.”

Sherlock scowled. “You are a despicable person, but lucky for you, these people are even worse.”

“So handing me over to them helps you how?”

Cassidy sat back in his chair, his long legs stretching out to meet Sherlock's under the table. He had the look of a man who hadn't had a sound sleep in days, and knowing what Mycroft's people were capable of, Sherlock suspected that might not be far from the truth.

“You’ll take each other out, and if you don’t, _I will_.”

For the first time Cassidy looked genuinely confused. “You can’t even make me give up information, and you expect me to go out and kill your bullies for you?” he chuckled. “Fat chance, do your own dirty work, or better still, get your insane brother to do it. Besides, in case you hadn't noticed, smart guy, I'm stuck in here.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Oh I don’t need you to go anywhere, Benjamin. I just need to wait right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I'm travelling for work again which means not much writing time. Back next week.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bang

John paced the kitchen, mug of tea in hand. He had the day off work, and Sherlock had run off to god knows where, he didn’t know what to do with himself. The detective’s last text message had puzzled him. Sherlock of all people did not put _kisses_ into a message. No. It just wouldn’t happen. ‘Perhaps it’s a code’, John thought to himself, but quickly dismissed the idea. If Sherlock had a code, it would be much cleverer than that. 

Gulping down the last of his tea, John figured he may as well make himself useful. The flat was a nightmare, as usual. He tried to keep on top of all of Sherlock’s mess, but sometimes that proved harder than it seemed. Glancing at the desk, the doctor immediately realised that the small pile of notes Sherlock had collected were missing. The ciphers, no doubt. Sherlock had told him he’d dealt with that case, but then Sherlock told him a lot of things so who was to know what he was up to? As brilliant as he was, if there was one thing Sherlock _wasn’t_ good at, it was communication. 

_____

_John was looking at him, he could feel it. “Hmm?”_

_“I knew you were awake.”_

_Sherlock frowned, opening his eyes. “No you didn’t.”_

_“You’ve been pretending to sleep for ages, Sherlock.”_

_“If you know that, then you’ve been pretending too.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, mister detective,” John smiled, playfully smacking Sherlock’s chest. “what’s wrong?”_

_“Why does something have to be wrong? It’s not unusual that I’m unable to sleep.”_

_“No but it’s unusual for you to fake it.” John pushed himself up the bed, resting on his elbow._

_Sherlock sighed heavily. “Something isn’t always wrong, John. Sometimes people just can’t sleep.”_

_“Yes, well you’re not ‘people’, are-“_

_John was interrupted by Sherlock kissing him. It had fast become the detective’s preferred method of shutting John up, and truth be told, he didn’t mind at all. Sherlock cupped his jaw gently in his large, soft hand as he forced their mouths together roughly. John knew better than to object, and why would he? He submit himself completely as Sherlock’s tongue invaded his mouth, and his spare hand run down his side, resting gently at the hem of his pyjamas._

_“What, again?” The doctor frowned, reluctantly breaking their bond._

_Sherlock smirked, his eyes lapping up every inch of his friend’s body he could make out in the dimly lit room. “Who knows, it may help me sleep.”_

_“As if you need an excuse to get in my pants.”_

_“True.” Sherlock kissed him once more as he dipped the tips of his fingers under the remaining barrier keeping him from John. It had only been a matter of hours since he’d last lay his hands on his partner’s warm, naked body, but each touch felt like a new experience, something he never got sick of._

_John gave in easily, eagerly, to Sherlock’s hands exploring him. He felt himself melt away, and his entire body tingle in anticipation. The detective grabbed at him hungrily, tugging at his clothes and disposing of them in disgust._

_Pushing John onto his back, Sherlock straddled him quickly so that the doctor wouldn't have time to protest. Truth be told he knew exactly why he couldn't sleep. The cipher case had been playing on his mind since the first envelope had arrived at Baker Street, and even in the throws of intimacy, it nagged at him relentlessly. 'Just ignore it,' he told himself, concentrating on John's beautiful body beneath him. 'deal with it later.'_

_Sherlock shuddered as John's hands ran up his back, pulling his pyjama top over his head. "Now that's a pretty sight."_

_"Did you call me 'pretty'?"_

_John smiled, pulling Sherlock onto him so their chests pressed together heavily. "You should take what you can get."_

_The detective laughed softly. John was right. He **did** love him, so very much. Nobody else could ever make him feel so complete as he did. Nobody else could put him in his place, and reduce him to a moaning, wimpering mess like John Watson. And yet as much as Sherlock loved John, as much as he wanted to tell him, he was constantly being interrupted. By himself._

_"There's something I have to do." he whispered, nuzzling into John's neck._

_"What, now? You really have something to do **now**?"_

_"Yes."_

_'Typical', John thought to himself. There's no way he'd put up with "something" constantly interrupting his life ordinarily. But somehow, it had become a regular feature of his life with Sherlock. "Do what you have to do."_

_____

No, Sherlock was _not_ a good communicator.

___

“You are fucking mental.”

Sherlock smiled dryly. “Am I? Do you think I would have come this far in my career if I was ‘fucking mental’?”

“What do I care?” Cassidy sneered, folding his arms defensively. 

“Oh I think you’ll care in just a moment.”

A loud crash caused the pair to jump. Sherlock knew it was coming, but the sudden interruption of the eerie quiet that filled the facility still took him by surprise. He carefully slipped his hand out of his coat pocket, making sure to keep his phone concealed.

“W-what was that?”

“What do you think it was?”

Cassidy stood up and backed himself against the wall, his darkened eyes darting across the room as though he were expecting something to appear out of thin air.   
“We’re in here!” the detective called out, still sitting comfortably in his chair. 

The door swung open and two large men stood there, eyeing the prisoner hungrily. 

“Mister Cassidy, these are the mobsters,” Sherlock introduced matter-of-factly, gesturing to the doorway. He recognised one of them as Marcus, the man he’d met in the alleyway previously. “mobsters, this is who you’ve been looking for.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“You!” one of the men yelled, pointing at Cassidy. “Shu’ up, and you,” he looked down at Sherlock. “you’re comin’ with me.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Sherlock stood up, brushing his hands down his coat and tightening his scarf. “I’ve given you what you want, I really should be getting back to London.”

Marcus slung a thick, hairy arm around his neck, lurching the detective backwards into his body. “Stay where you are.”

“Are you watching this?” Sherlock called out, smiling up at the ceiling. “Cassidy, you need to kill them.”

The prisoner was shaking. The drugs Mycroft’s people had given him were wearing off but the sudden intrusion, the loud noises, and the utter confusion left him bewildered. “I what?”

Taking advantage of the seconds of puzzlement Sherlock took his shot, elbowing his captor sharply in the groin, loosening his grip. He made a grab for the handgun poking out of the man’s pocket and hastily threw it across the room. 

Cassidy caught the gun, apparently unaware of what to do with it.

“For goodness sake, shoot it, you fool!”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” The second mobster spoke up, pointing his own gun at Cassidy’s head. 

“What? I don’t-“

“Benjamin, shoot them!”

“You, shut up!” Marcus yelled at Sherlock, his eyes not leaving his lost gun. “And you, don’t you dare fucking shoot me or he’ll shoot ‘im.”

Cassidy frowned, his arms shaking as he held the gun uneasily. “Why do I care if you shoot him?” He asked, gesturing to Sherlock.

The detective backed slowly into the corner of the room, making certain not to make any sudden movements.

“’Cos ‘ees the only one stoppin’ me shootin’ you!”

“I don’t-“

“Shoot them or they’ll shoot me, then you!” Sherlock yelled across the room. He wasn’t entirely sure it was true. He had been wrong an awful lot lately, but this was the first time a potential mistake could cost him his life. He dipped his hand back in his coat pocket and felt around for his phone. 

“What do I-“ Cassidy was sobbing, his shaky arms held his gun out in front of him, wavering between the mobsters at the door. “I just don’t-“

The mobster with the gun readied his weapon, aiming it squarely at the prisoner’s head. “Put your gun down, a’rse hole or I’m gunna shoot ya, in three... two... one...”

_BANG!_

Sherlock managed to cover his ears just in time. Two bodies dropped to the ground, the remaining mobster stood, knees shaking, staring down at his fallen friend. 

“Mister Holmes? Mister Holmes are you injured?” a voice from the corridor called.

“No, I’m fine.” Sherlock replied. He slowly moved across the room to where Benjamin Cassidy’s dead body lay. Bullet to the temple, he didn’t stand a chance. He glanced over towards the door. The mobster had taken a single bullet to the back of the head. 

“Wh... what, I don’t understand?”Marcus stammered as armed guards rushed the room to seize him.

“Well, two out of three isn’t bad.” Sherlock mumbled to himself. He looked up into Marcus’s confused eyes and smiled. “Better luck next time.”

___

_“Are you watching this?” Sherlock called out, smiling up at the ceiling._

John pressed ‘pause’ on the CCTV footage. “You what? Really, Sherlock?”

The detective smiled cheekily. “Frailty of genius, John.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and made his way to the door. “Lucky for your I made an exception regarding my stance on text messaging today, Sherlock.”

“You wouldn’t have let them shoot me, Mycroft.” Sherlock smirked. “The paperwork would be a nightmare.”

“Yes, I suppose.” The Elder Holmes agreed. “Plus I’d never hear the end of it from Mother.”

John stared at the doorway until he was sure Mycroft had left. “Wait, you _texted_ your brother to shoot a man for you?”

“Well when you put it like that it sounds so dull.” Sherlock sulked. “I suppose if you were to dumb it down to the simplest form, yes, yes I did.”

“But-“

“Come with me to the Yard tomorrow when I explain to Lestrade.” The detective stood from his chair and leaned over his partner. “You can hear all about how brilliant I am then.” He planted a gentle kiss on John's lips before straightening up and holding out a hand. "For now, we have unfinished business."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, I thought I posted this a couple of weeks ago! I didn't realise I hadn't until someone told me. Sorry.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“And Mister Holmes, it’s true you have consulted for Scotland Yard on a number of cases, but this was not one of them?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “You already know that, Lestrade.”

The DI stopped the recorder. “Sherlock, we’ve done this how many times? Just answer the questions.” He grumbled, pressing down on ‘record’ again.

“Yes, that is true.”

“Now that two men are dead the police have no choice but to look in to the matter,” Lestrade explained. “Now, would you mind telling us how you ended up in a room with half a dozen armed guards, a convicted felon and two mobsters?”

“Delighted.” Sherlock smirked. “A few years ago I got bored and decided to develop my own cipher. A cipher is a language that-“

“He knows what it is, Sherlock.” John said warningly. He was as curious as the police to find out what had happened, but he still wouldn’t let the detective get away with being a smug git.

“Well, yes, my cipher is based on an alphabet I developed through music, one that is fairly complicated, but the right mind could unravel it with little trouble.”

Lestrade frowned, scribbling on his notepad. “So ‘A’ is the note ‘A’ and so on?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock grumbled. “any idiot could come up with that. No, it’s a fair bit more complex than that. It’s all on my website, please do have a look. In layman’s terms, I assigned a letter to a note, and then a note to a symbol. It’s quite brilliant.” He smirked.

“Of course it is.” The DI mumbling, abandoning his notes. “What did the ciphers say?”

“Not long ago I received note in an envelope. John found it under our front door with my name but no sign as to who it came from. The first note told me that I was to deliver information regarding the whereabouts of Doreen Marsden. She’s a somewhat infamous mob boss who our good friend Benjamin Cassidy has ties to. For some reason, these unsavoury people assumed that I had some knowledge of the whereabouts of Marsden because of our investigation. As you know, that is untrue.”

“But even if you did know, you wouldn’t have told them, right?”

“No, John. I did, however, have to tell them something. Their note to me demanded information, otherwise they would harm your loved ones. Your sister, your army friends, maybe Lestrade if it went on long enough.”

John frowned. “Hang on, they didn’t threaten me personally, just people I care about?”

“These aren’t your typical mobsters, they were not only clever enough to communicate with me using my own language, but they knew the best way to get me to comply was threaten your happiness rather than my own.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Hey, guys,” Lestrade interrupted. “this is official police business, maybe save that conversation for later.”

“I was told that swift action would be taken were I to tell anybody the contents of the note. Fairly standard blackmailing, John. Of course I had no information to give but this answer was not going to be acceptable to these people. I concocted a story for them, I even produced fake evidence, but that was quickly rebutted. I failed, I’ve not been in that situation before and panicked. The second note explained that were I to try to deceive them again, Harriett Watson would be dead by the weekend. With nowhere else to turn, I reluctantly decided to give them Cassidy. I knew I could get access to him if needed and he was the closest we were ever going to get to Marsden anyway.”

“So you told the mobsters follow you to the country facility where he was being held?”

“No, they would presume that was a trap. I told them I would be having regular contact with somebody who had the information they required. That would lead them to tail me, supposedly without my knowledge. I lead them to my brother’s secret prison and-“

“Hang on, Sherlock, it’s not Mycroft’s prison.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “The _government’s_ secret prison, then. I told my brother I would be coming so he could grant me access.”

“Ok, so you arrive at the facility and go to talk to Mister Cassidy?”

“Yes. At this point Mycroft knows I have arrived and no doubt expects the worst, as he tends to do. On entering Cassidy’s cell I sent him a text message telling him to allow my stalkers access to the prison, and to arrange armed guards to be at the ready. I knew he would comply; despite our differences, he doesn’t want me dead just yet. The mobsters followed me inside, and I called them into Cassidy’s cell. He was somewhat sedated but aware enough. I instigated a scuffle of sorts to disarm one of the intruders, and arm Cassidy with a gun. With two guns being pointed in such a confined space, I texted Mycroft to send his people in. They see someone about to shoot, so they shoot first. Well, they should have, they were a little slow. Our second mobster, I’m not sure of his name, shot Cassidy seconds before he himself got a bullet to the back of the head. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” John asked. He was used to long, rambling deductions which pinned down each piece of evidence in excruciating detail. “But what about-“

“I’ve explained what happened and how I orchestrated it, that’s all they need.”

“How did you know they’d shoot each other?”

Sherlock stood from his chair and wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. “How do I know anything, Lestrade? It was obvious.”

John smiled apologetically to the DI as he followed Sherlock out of the Yard and to the road. The pair caught a taxi back to Baker Street in silence, John trying to wrap his head around Sherlock’s statement.

Sherlock headed straight for his violin as they entered the living room, but John stopped him.

“That’s it?” He repeated.

“That’s what?”

“You had two people shot in order to save my sister’s life.”

“Well, sort of. I didn’t do it for her, or any of the other people who were potentially in danger. I did it for you.”

John frowned. “But they got _shot!_ ”

“Are you missing the part where I did it for you? Because I did. And because they were all very bad men, but also for you.”

“I don’t want you to shoot people for me.”

Sherlock put his violin down and crossed his arms defensively. “ _I_ did not shoot anybody.” He grumbled. “Look, John, if I told you what was going on you would have panicked, you would have told Lestrade, or in some other way tried to intervene. That’s not what I needed.”

“What happened to you trusting me?”

“You’re the one who followed me on one of my meetings with the mobsters, don’t forget that.”

John’s cheeks turned pink as he fumbled his words. “Well, yes, I suppose that’s right.”

Sherlock smirked and placed his hands on the doctor’s shoulders. “I trust you, John, absolutely. I trust you more than I’ve ever trust anybody in my life, but there are some things that I need to take care of myself. I will not put you in danger, or put you in any situation where you need to make the kinds of decisions that I had to make these past few weeks. That’s not fair.”

“You don’t need to protect me, Sherlock.” John smiled weakly.

“Yes I do, who else will?”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slim torso and pulled him in tight. He breathed in deeply, the detective’s familiar scent swimming through his body. “Thank you.”

“You’ll always be in danger with me, you know that, don’t you?”

“Sherlock, I’ve been to war, I think I can handle London.”

Sherlock shook his head as he ran his fingers through John’s sandy hair. “It isn’t the same. You will be targeted personally, along with me. Associating with me is a  
dangerous life.”

“’Associating’, really?” John laughed. “I don’t care, Sherlock. I want to be in your life as your friend and your partner, no matter what that means.”

The detective frowned. “When you say ‘partner’, do you mean at crime scenes or-“

“Both. In every way. That’s what I want, and I’ll do anything to hold on to that.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, his active mind going into overdrive. “You really do love me, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Sherlock knew the answer even as he asked the question, but he never tired of hearing it. He nervously curled his fingers around John’s locks. “I love you too.”

John’s eyes widened and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. He tried to detach himself from Sherlock’s chest but the detective’s grasp around his shoulders only intensified. Eventually he exhaled as he gripped the back of his friend’s shirt in tight fists. “Good.”

___

**Dear Harry,  
I know it has been a long time since we have spoken, and I don’t suppose this even counts as speaking, but it’s something, isn’t it?**

**For a long time I thought we had drifted too far apart to mend our relationship but recent events have made me realise that nothing is worth losing you over. I know you’ve been keeping an eye on be through my blogs, but that only tells the story of one half of my life, the other half is far more exciting.**

**You should know I’m seeing somebody, in fact we live together. It’s a bit complicated, but Sherlock and I have been together for a while now, in one sense or another. It’s hardly a conventional relationship, and I know I’ve only ever shown an interest in women, but there you go. I can’t explain it, but hopefully you’ll meet him for yourself one day, and then it might make more sense. He is a good person, and he cares for me like nobody else ever has. We make a good pair, and since I can’t tell mum or dad, I wanted to tell you.**

**I hope you’re doing well, I’m keen to hear from you.**

**John.**

 

John sat back and re-read his email over and over. He meant every word of it, but in the past when he’d thought of reaching out to his sister he’d chickened out at the last minute.

“Just send it.” Sherlock droned from the other side of the room.

“How did you-“

“You’ve been staring at the screen far too long for it to be a blog entry.” 

“Yes, well, it’s not every day I get to reach out to my estranged sister, is it?”

“One of you has to make the first move, it may as well be you.”

John knew he was right, as always, but it didn’t make it any easier. 

“Invite her over for Christmas.”

“But you hate Christmas!”

Sherlock shrugged, not bothering to look up from his book. “But I _love_ you.”

 

**p.s. We’d love to have you for Christmas.**

 

John smiled and pressed ‘send’. Perhaps things would work out after all. He shut his laptop and joined Sherlock on the couch. “What are you reading?”

“It’s a book on medieval weaponry in what we now call the Middle East.”

“Of course it is.” The doctor mumbled, smirking. He picked up the newspaper on the coffee table. That was his life now, one he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams. But, somehow, it was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap. Thanks to those who stuck it out despite my shitty work/life schedule. Thanks to everyone who commented or just hung around to read. Means a lot.
> 
> For anyone interested, here's my new story: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1137251 (set at the end of season 3, contains spoilers)


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